&.^=. 


The 
Woman  Who  Wouldn't 


By 
Rose  Pastor  Stokes 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  and  London 

Zbe  linicliecboc^ec  press 

1916 


Copyright,  1916 

BY 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S   SONS 


TEbe  Itnfcftcrbocfter  pce00»  ncy»  IQovft 


PERSONS  IN  THE  PLAY 

Mary  Lacey A  Flower  Maker 

Katherine Her  Mother 

John Her  Father 

Katie Her  Little  Sister 

Bennie Her  Baby  Brother 

Jennie Her  Married  Sister 

Joe Engaged  to  Mary 

McCarthy A  Labour  Leader 

The  Doctor 
The  Child 


3C0079 


ACT  I 

Scene:  The  interior  of  a  workingman's  home  in  a 
small  milling  town  in  Pennsylvania.  The 
room  contains  to  the  left  an  old  cupboard,  a 
stove,  a  washstand  with  tin  basin  and  half- 
broken  water  pitcher  and  pail;  an  empty 
soap  box  set  near  the  stove,  Down  Left,  a 
clothes-horse  laden  with  expensive,  elaborate 
undergarments  freshly  ironed,  a  kitchen  chair 
and  a  table,  an  ironing-board,  and  a  clothes- 
basket.  To  Right  Centre,  a  small  deal  table; 
on  it  a  profusion  of  gaily  coloured  Jlower- 
making  material  and  a  simple  bit  of  pottery 
which  holds  an  artificial  American  Beauty 
rose.  There  is  a  chair  before  the  table,  a 
stool  on  one  side  of  it,  and  a  cradle  on  the 
other.  Down  Right,  a  dilapidated  old  sofa. 
Up  Right,  in  the  angle  of  the  wall,  is  an  alcove 
inadequately  curtained  off  by  clean  but  scant 
and  faded  dimity  curtains;  and  through  these 
an  old  wooden  bed  and  its  trappings  are  half 


:^-:;l/^J^:'WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

disclosed.  One  window  up  Left,  near  the 
cupboard,  opens  to  a  small  back  yard,  where 
several  lines  of  wash  are  seen  fluttering  in  the 
wind.  Up  Right  to  left  of  alcove  is  another 
window  looking  on  a  street  typical  of  the 
poorest  district  in  any  milling  town.  On  the 
wall  near  this  window  hangs  a  small  shelf 
upon  which  are  ranged  a  variety  of  medicine 
bottles  and  a  cheap  old  alarm  clock.  Street 
door  up  Centre,  Between  the  door  and  shelf, 
rather  low  on  the  wall,  an  inexpensive  but 
artistic  {not  Catholic)  print  of  a  Madonna 
and  Child, 

Time  :  The  end  of  a  day  early  in  March, 

Discovered:  Katie,  a  thin,  pale  child  of  nervous 
movements,  sits  on  stool  near  table  Right, 
laboriously  trying  to  fashion  a  red  flower, 
ICatherine,  a  hard-working  woman  of  forty - 
three,  stout  and  troubled  with  rheumatism,  is 
ironing  an  elaborate  undergarment.  Her 
face  is  expressive  of  extreme  humility, 

Katie 
Oh,  I  can't  make  one! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T         3 

Katherine 
[Turning  to  glance  at  EIatie] 
Put  that  stuff  down,  child,  put  it  down.  If  you 
spoil  some  o'  that  it'll  only  worry  Mary,  for 
they'll  take  it  out  o'  her  wages.  She's  wor- 
ried enough  these  days !  Though  what  worries 
her  the  good  Lord  knows. 

[Glancing  at  the  child  again  who  now 
sits  with  empty  hands  folded] 
That's  a  good  girl.  .  .  .    Now  where's  Mary  gone 
to? 

Katie 
To  Mrs.  Jones  to  borrow  a  bucket  of  coal. 

Katherine 
[Changing  her  irons] 
It  was  a  cold,  cold  night.  .  .  .    But  the  Lord 
knows  what's  best  for  us. 

[She  sighSf  catches  her  breath  with  pain 
which  comes  upon  her  suddenly  and  fre- 
quently,  and  returns  to  her  work] 

Katie 
[Going  to  table  Right] 
If  I  could  make  flowers  Mary  wouldn't  have  to 
work  all  day  and  all  evening  .  .  .  would  she, 


4         THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mother?  .  .  .     Mary  won't  sing  and  dance 
and  play  games  with  me  as  she  used  to  do. 

Katherine 
Mary    doesn't    mind    the    work — she's    always 
worked  hard. 

Katie 
Joe  ain't  been  coming  to  see  Mary  all  week. 

Katherine 

Give  me  a  drink  o'  water,  Katie.     I'm  jest  dyin* 
with  thirst. 

[To  herself] 
How  smart  these  young  ones  are  nowadays! 

Katie 

[Going  for   water] 

I  seen  him  takin*  Bertha  Mason  home  yesterday. 

Katherine 
Hushup,  now! 

Katie 
[Giving  her  mother  a  cup  of  water  and 
espying  Mary  through  the  window] 
Oh,  Mary,  Mary's  coming! 

[She  runs  to  the  door] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT         5 

With  a  whole  scuttle  full! 

[She  opens  the  door  wide] 
[Enter  Mary,  half  dragging,  half  car- 
rying a  scuttle  full  of  coal.  She  is  a  slip 
of  a  girl  of  nineteen.  Her  face  is  very  pale. 
She  wears  her  hair  combed  hack  simply. 
There  are  dark  shadows  around  her  eyes. 
She  wears  a  shirtwaist  and  dark  skirt  and 
a  little  red  shawl  over  her  shoulders] 

Mary 
[Setting  the  scuttle  down  near  the  stove 
and  slowly  and  painfully  straightening  her 
hack] 
Oh ! 

Katherine 

It*s  awful  kind  o'  Mrs.  Jones. 

Mary 
[Proceeding  to  fill  the  stove] 
Yes,  Mother. 

[Pause] 
I  said  I*d  return  it  as  soon  as  I*d  got  my  pay. 

Katie 

Let  me  try  to  fill  the  stove,  Mary. 

[She  places  a  hand  on  the  scuttle] 


6         THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
No,  dearie,    Ye're  too  little. 

Katie 
[Moving  away  a  bit  and  standing  her 
tallest  and  straightest] 
But  I*m  growing! 

Mary 
Not  fast  enough,  dear.    Has  Bennie  cried? 

Katie 
No,  he's  been  sleeping. 

Mary 
[Looking  at  the  clock] 
It's  near  time  fer  his  medicine. 

Katherine 
The  doctor  hasn't  been  yet. 

Mary 
[With  a  burst] 
Will  he  never  come? 

Katherine 
[In    astonishment] 
Why,  child,  Bennie  ain't  so  sick  as  all  that! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T        7 

Mary 

Ah ! 

[She  utters  a  dry  soh] 

KA.THERINE 

[Alarmed] 
Ye' re  not  sick,  Mary! 

Mary 

[Feverishly  poking  the  ashes  from  the 
stove] 
No  no!  Mother  ...  no!    I — I — I'm  all — ^right. 

KA.THERINE 

\With  a  sigh  of  relief] 
Ye'd  better  take  a  bit  o'  supper  now.     Ye  haven't 
had  a  bite  t'  eat  all  day.     There's  some  bread 
an'  a  little  jam  an*  some  tea. 

Mary 
[Throwing  the  shawl  on  the  chair  Right] 
Thank  ye,  Mother;  I'm  not  hungry  yet. 

[There  is  a  child's  feeble  cry] 
Poor  little  Bennie! 

[She  goes  to  cradle  and  looks  tenderly 
down  at  the  child] 
Poor  little  brother. 

[She  kneels  and  smooths  his  pillow] 


8         THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

There! 

[RiseSy  draws  the  cradle  nearer  the  table, 
sits,  rocks  the  cradle  with  her  foot,  looks 
quickly  hack  at  the  mother  at  work  and 
ELA.TIE  warming  herself  before  the  fire; 
draws  a  letter  from  the  folds  of  her  waist, 
opens  and  fingers  it  for  a  few  moments, 
then  makes  a  strange  noise  like  that  of  a 
hurt  animal,  inarticulate  but  poignant] 

Katherine 
{Who  has  just  changed  her  iron,  testing 
its  heat  near  her  face,  wheels  around  as 
quickly  as  her  bulk  will  permit] 
Who's  the  letter  from? 

Mary 
[Thrusting  it  back  in  its  place] 
From  Sallie  Jamison. 

Katherine 
[Back   at   her   work] 
What's  it  all  about? 

Mary 
Jes'  some — some — sad  news  about  a — a — a — a — 
friend  o*  Sallie's. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T         9 

Katherine 
What's  the  use  o'  your  worryin*  about  it. 

Mary 
[Taking  up  her  work  on  the  flowers] 
No  use. 

[Katie  comes  silently  over  to  Mary  and 
nestles  up  close  in  sympathy] 

Katherine 
[Ironing  vigorously] 
Poor  thing!  .  .  .  Everybody's  got  their  troubles 
— but  the  greatest  trouble  of  all  is  when 
we  aint'  got  enough  faith.  .  .  .  What'd  I 
do  without  faith  .  .  .  with  Father  on  strike 
fer  two  months  an'  you  workin'  s'  extra  hard, 
an*  me  only  the  mill-owner's  wife  t'  wash  fer, 
an'  Bennie  sick  an'  the  doctor  bills  to  pay 
— why,  I'd  worry  me  head  off  if  I  didn't 
b'lieve  in  the  good  Lord! 

[Folding  a  pressed  garment,  hanging  it 
on  the  clothes-horse  J  and  starting  on  a  fresh 
one,  she  sings  in  a  cracked,  low  voice] 
"In  some  way  'r  other,  th'  Lord  will  provide. 

It  may  not  be  my  way,  it  may  not  be  thy  way, 
An'  yet  in  His  own  way — the  Lord  will  provide. 


10       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Yes,  we'll  trust  in  th'  Lord  an  *  He  will  provide. 

Yes,  we'll— Oh !" 

[She  is  checked  by  an  attack  of  rheumatic 
pain] 

[Mary,  while  Katherine  is  singing, 
gives  Bennie  his  medicine ,  returns  the 
bottle  to  the  shelf,  peers  through  the  window 
in  feverish  anxiety,  and  goes  back  to  her 
work  at  the  flowers] 

Katie 
[On  the  stool,  leaning  over  to  Mary] 
What's  the  matter,  Mary? 

Mary 
Nothin',  dearie. 

[A  pause] 

Katie 
I'm  hungry,  Mary.     Can't  /  have  some  of  your 
supper? 

Mary 
YeVe  had  yer  share,  Katie,  an'  Father  ain't  had 
none  yet. 

Katie 

Oh ! 

[She  sighs] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       ii 

Katie 
Is  that  why  you  sent  Nellie  to  Jennie*s  house? — 
Because  there  ain*t  *nough  supper  fer  every- 
body? 

Mary 
But  she'll  be  back  before  long.    Besides,  ye  see 
her  in  school  every  day. 

Katie 

Tomorrow's  Nellie's  birthday. 

[She  timidly  reaches  for  some  material 
and  attempts  to  make  a  flower,  while  look- 
ing  up  for  Mary's  consent] 

Mary 
Jes'  this  one,  Katie.  .  .  .    Yes,  Nellie'll  be  'leven 
t'morrow. 

Katie 

That's  two  years  older'n  me.  Fm  going  to  work 
when  Fm  'leven. 

Mary 

Ye  must  go  to  school  an'  learn — you  an'  Nellie 
.  .  .  an'  not  grow  up  ignorant  like  me  .  .  . 
then  tryin'  awful  hard  to  learn  afterward. 
There  ain't  much  use  tryin'  to  learn  after  ye're 


12       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

grown  up  an*  workin'  hard.  .  .  .  It*s  awful 
nice  o'  Mr.  McCarthy  tryin*  to  teach  me  ever 
since  he  come  to  win  the  strike  fer  the  men, 
but  I'm  as  hard  as  rock  in  my  head  with  the 
readin'  books.  Ye  must  do  better  'n  me, 
Katie.  Anyhow,  ye  couldn't  get  yer  workin* 
papers  till  ye*re  fourteen. 

Katie 
Yes,  I  could!    I  heard  Mrs.  Jones  tell  mother  't 
she  got  papers  for  Martha;  an'  Martha's  only 
twelve. 

[Pause] 
'Cause  all  she  had  to  do  was  swear  that  Martha's 
fourteen. 

Mary 

[Working  rapidly  and  nervously] 
Oh  poverty!     Poverty!     Poverty! 
[A  pause] 

Katie 
An'  mother  says  't  you  learned  t'  make  flowers 
when  you  was  only  ten. 

Mary 

Yes,  dear;  an'  it  's  jes'  as  hard  t'  keep  the  wolf 
from  the  door  now,  as  it  was  then. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       13 

Katie 
There   ain't   no   wolves  round   here? — Is   there, 
Mary? 

[Pause] 
Is  there? 

Mary 
No,  of  course  not! — ^ye  see,  dear,  ye  can't  make 
a  flower. 

Katie 
[Putting  the  stuff  back  on  the  table  with 
a  gesture  of  discouragement] 
Oh,  I'm  so  hungry! 

Mary 
[As  she  discovers  John  Lacey  passing 
window  Right] 
Deary! 

[She  rises  hastily  and  draws  Katie  from 
her  stool  to  her  side] 
I've  jes'  remembered!  Mrs.  Jones*s  Lizzie  said, 
*' Can't  Katie  come  over  an'  do  lessons  with 
me?"  An'  I  said  "Yes."  O'  course  .  .  . 
Lizzie's  a  bright  girl  in  school,  ye  know;  s' 
run  along,  now,  dear;  she'll  be  waitin'  fer  ye. 
.  .  .     Here's  yer  coat ! 

[She  snatches  it  from  the  foot  of  the  bed 


14       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

and  slips  it  on  the  childf  hustling  her  to  the 
door] 

Katie 
[Hanging  back] 
But  I*m  hungry! 

Mary 
Ye  know  yeVe  had  yer  share,  dear.  ...    If  I 
can  get  somethin'  fer  ye,  I'll  save  it  .  .  . 
there,  now! 

[Kissing  her] 
Run  along! 

[Exit  Katie  in  collision  with  John, 
who  gives  her  a  hug] 

[Enter  John  Lacey,  shutting  the  door 
behind  him.  He  is  a  hard-worked  but 
wiry  little  man  of  fifty  with  a  shock  of  iron- 
grey  hair,  keen,  kindly  eyes,  and  a  mouth 
and  jaw  grimly  set;  he  wears  a  labourer's 
shirt,  a  short  coat,  and  an  old  cap  which  he 
removes  from  his  head  and  hangs  on  a  hook 
near  the  door.] 

John 
Poor  kiddie!  .  .  .     She's  near  starved   t'   pure 
skin  an'  bones! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       15 

Katherine 
It's  dark  now,  Mary. 

[Proceeding  to  place  the  clothes  Jrom  the 

clothes-horse  into  the  wash-basket;  with  a 

sigh] 

Yes,  it's  a  hard  life,  but  we  should  be  thankful  to 

the  Lord  fer  little.    Some  folks  has  less,  John 

Lacey. 

John 
Ha! 

\With  a  gesture  of  hopelessness  equivalent 
to  sayings  *'What*s  the  use  of  arguing 
with  her?''  he  takes  up  the  poker,  pokes  the 
fire,  and  seats  himself  on  the  soap-box  near 
it  in  an  attitude  of  great  dejection  and 
weariness] 

Mary 
[Lighting  two  lamps  near  cupboard] 
Thankful  t'  th*  Lord.  ...    As  if  He  could  have 
anythin'  t*  do  with  it! 

[She  carries  one  lamp  to  the  work-table^ 
sits  and  works] 

Katherine 
[Folding  a  garment  for  the  basket] 
It's  sinful  t'  complain,  John  Lacey! 


i6       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 

[Rising  and  throwing  up  his  hands] 
No,  don't  complain!  Don't  complain!  When 
they  work  ye  t'  death  in  the  mills,  an*  starve 
ye  t'  death  in  the  strike,  don't  complain! 
When  they  live  like  lords  on  the  strength  o* 
yer  hands  an'  the  sweat  o'  yer  brow  an'  chuck 
ye  on  the  scrap-heap  when  they're  through 
with  ye,  don't  complain!  .  .  .  No,  be  meek! 
Be  mild!  Be  like  an  ox  under  th'  yoke! 
Let  'em  grind  ye  an'  starve  ye  t'  th'  limit  of 
endurance!  The  Lord  made  them  rix^h,  an* 
you  poor.    Pah! 

[He  snatches  a  garment  from  the  clothes- 
rack] 
Look  at  the  labour  on  this  thing:  this  bit  o'  lace 
at  the  bottom;  it'd  be  enough  t'  feed  us  fer 
two  weeks 

Katherine 
[Attempting  to  take  the  garment  from  him] 
John,  ye'U  crumple  it. 

John 
I'd    like   t'   crumple   them^    th'    beasts!     Leggo, 
Kate!  .  .  .  An'  look  at  this  bit  o'  lace  here! 
.  .  .  There's  labour  in  that,  I  tell  ye!    Some 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       17 

poor  old  soul  who  blames  it  all  on  th*  good 
Lord  has  maybe  gone  blind  over  th'  makin* 
of  it.  .  .  .  The  cost  o'  this  'd  keep  our 
Nellie  in  shoes  for  six  months — an*  Katie, 
too,  fer  that  matter — or  pay  our  Bennie's 
doctor  bills — or  maybe  he  wouldn't  have  got 
sick  at  all  if  we'd  'a'  had  the  price  o*  this 
finery  .  .  .  Here,  take  the  damned  white 
things  back  t'  th'  boss's  wife 


Katherine 
[Taking  the  garment  and  placing  it  in 
the  basket] 
God  forgive  ye,  John. 

John 
An'  she'll  tell  ye  with  her  pleasantest  smile,  damn 

her,  that  she  don't  "require  yer  services  no 

more." 

[Katherine  looks  up  sharply] 
Yes,  the  boss  o'  th'  mills  's  found  out  that  Joe's 

been  leadin'  the  young  fellers  in  th'  strike; 

an'  Joe  bein'  engaged  t'  Mary —     They  know 

the  game  o'  crushin'  us  all  right  ...  an'  the 

Lord  didn't  teach  'em  neither. 


i8       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katherine 
[Meekly  throwing  the  red  shawl  about 
her  head  and  shoulders  and  carrying  the 
basket  of  clothes  to  the  door] 
Oh,  I  don't  believe  she'd  do  it!    She's  a  charitable 
lady,  an'  she's  always  sayin'  as  how  them 
that  th'  Lord  has  given  great  riches  should 
help   th'   poor    .    .    .    she  knows   me  fer   a 
God-fearin'  woman  ...  we  go  t'  th'  same 
church 

John 
That  won't  save  ye  when  the  boss's  profits  is  at 
stake. 

Katherine 
John!    John!    Ye  always  will  talk  so  bitter.     If 
th'  Lord  has  given  'em  better  brains  an'  more 
o'  th'  things  o'  this  world,  it's  not  our  place 
to  question  God's  will. 

John 
God's  will!    The  devil's  will,  Kate!    An'  if  yer 
preacher  was  an  honest  man  he  'd  tell  ye 
the  truth  about  it. 

Katherine 
[As  John  opens  the  door  for  her] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       19 

God  forgive  yer  blasphemy,  John — Mary,  ye'll 
take  good  care  o*  Ben  .  .  .  an'  watch  out 
fer  th*  doctor? 

Mary 
[Rising] 


Yes,  Mother. 


[Exit  Ka^therine] 

Mary 
[To  herself] 


The  doctor! 


John 
[Shutting  the  door] 
Th*  cowardly,  miserable  preacher! 

Mary 
[Going  to  the  cupboard] 
Father,  why  do  ye  call  him  that?  Is  he  any  more 
t*  blame  than  th'  rest  of  us  who're  tied  down 
t*  our  bread  an*  butter?  .  .  .  Poor  old  man! 
If  he  depended  on  us  fer  a  livin*  'stead  of  on 
the  rich  he'd  maybe  preach  our  gospel. 

John 
\With  hands  in  his  pockets  and  head 
bowed] 


20       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

I  guess  ye*re  right,   daughter.  .  .  .     Where  did 
you  get  them  idees  from? 

Mary 
McCarthy,  th'  man  that's  made  ye  all  put  up  this 
fight  in  the  mills. 

John 
I  guess  he's  right.  ... 

Mary 

[Setting  a  quarter  loaf  of  bread  on  the 
table  Left,  some  jam,  and  a  cup  of  tea] 
Here's  yer  supper,  Father.    Ye  haven't  had  nothin' 
t'  day. 

John 
Have  you,  Mary? 

Mary 
No,  Dad. 

John 
[Cutting  off  a  slice  of  bread,  putting  jam 
on  it,  and  offering  it  to  Mary] 
Here.     We'd  better  share  it. 

Mary 
No,  thank  ye.     I'm  not.  .  .  .  Yes!    I  think  I 
will — jes'  this  one. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       21 

John 
[Looking   anxiously   after   her   as   she 
takes  the  bread  and  goes] 
Been  workin'  very  hard,  eh?  .  .  . 

[^4^  she  places  the  slice  of  bread  on  the 

end  of  her  work-table  and  Katie's  stool 

near  the  slice  of  bread] 

Poor  youngster!    The  heavy  end  o*  the  pack's 

on  your  shoulders.     Jes'  ye  wait  till  this  long 

strike's  over,  little  girl! — Ye'll  get  a  bit  of 

a  rest  then. 

Mary 
Have  ye  seen — Joe  today? 

John 
[Eating  ravenously] 
Yes.  At  the  meetin'  ...  he  said  to  be  sure  an' 
tell  ye  he's  comin'  over  t'night.  ...  I  told 
him  as  how  ye  were  lookin'  kinder  pale  and 
worried-like  ...  his  not  comin'  'round  fer 
over  a  week  now.  .  .  .  He  said  he  was  jes'  so 
busy  with  th'  strike.  ...  He  has  been  pretty 
busy  with  th'  boys,  Mary.  .  .  .  How's 
Bennie? 


22       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Moving  toward  table  Left] 
Ye    can't    tell  .  .  .  they're    sech    helpless    little 
things. 

John 
[Pause.     With    a    sigh] 
C'n  ye  gimme  a  little  more  tea,  Mary? 

Mary 
[Moving   eagerly  to   get  it] 
Sure,  Father.     It's  pretty  cold  out  an'  it's  good 
to  get  a  little  warm  somethin'  inside  o'  one. 

John 
An*  make  it  good  an'  strong,  child. 

Mary 
[Looking    into    the    teapot] 
There's  only  a  little  bit  o'  weak  tea  here,  an'  there 
ain't  no  more  in  th'  house. 

[She  gives  him  a  cupful] 

John 
Thank  ye.  .  .  .    Is   there   a  little  more  bread, 
perhaps? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       23 

Mary 
No,  Dad,  there  ain't  no  more  bread.  .  .  .     No 
more  food  at  all. 

John 
An*  no  money. 

Mary"^ 
Mother  *11  get  paid  fer  th'  laundry  t'night. 

John 

[With    a    burst] 

An*  that's  all  she'll  ever  get  from  'em,  the  pack 

o'  hounds !    They  think  they'll  drive  us  back 

t'  work  by  starvin'  us  out  complete.  .  .  . 

We'll  die  first!— The  whole  mill-full  of  us! 

Mary 
[Clearing  some  of  the  dishes  from  the 
table] 
An*  I'll  get  .  .  .  there'll  be  my  pay,  at  th'  end  o' 
th'  week. 

John 
[Drawing  Mary  to  him  with  a  rough 
tenderness] 
What'd  we  do  without  ye,  little  girl  .  .  .  brave 
little  girl! 


24       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

Mary 
[With  a  dry  sob] 
Don't!    Don't  say  that  o'  me,  father.     I  ...  I 
...  I  ain't  brave  ...I.  ..I.  ..I... 
Oh! 

[She  breaks  down,  slipping  to  the  floor 
and  dropping  her  head  on  his  kneel 

John 
Why,  child,  what  ails  ye?  Ye  ain't  well  ...  ye 
ain't  been  happy  .  .  .  I've  been  noticin' 
that  fer  a  long  time — since  the  first  of  the 
year.  Ain't  ye  happy  with  Joe? — Ye've 
been  engaged  t*-  him  long  enough — nigh  two 
years  now,  an'  ye  had  a  soft  spot  in  yer  heart 
fer  him  long  before.  Don't  ye  love  him, 
child?  .  .  .  But  what's  the  use  of  askin' 
ye  that?  I  know  ye  do.  Is  it  the  long  time 
ye  got  t'  wait  till  ye  c'n  marry?  But  then, 
what'repoor  folks  like  we  t' do?  .  .  .  Come, 
come,  little  girl,  ye're  not  well,  ye're  nervous. 
.  .  .  Tell  yer  daddy  what's  the  trouble. 

Mary 
[Her  sobs  dying  down] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       25 

I  ...  I  ...  I  ..  .    Oh    I     am  .  .  .  jes'  .  .  . 
jes'  a  .  .  .  a  .  .  .  little  .  .  .  nervous. 
[She  rises  and  goes  to  the  stove] 

John 
[Contemplating  her  Jor  a  moment,  then 
hastening  to  her] 
No,  let  me  do  this,  child  .  .  .  ye'd  better  rest  a 
little. 

[He  removes  irons  and  places  them  in 
the  closet  bottom  oj  stove] 

Mary 
I'll  finish  m*  work. 

[She  goes  to  her  table  and  resumes  her 
work  on  the  flowers] 

John 
Ye're  workin'  much  too  hard  ...  at  least  ye 
ought  t'  have  yer  evenin's. 

Mary 
[Working  nervously] 
An*  make  ye  go  back  to  the  mills!  ...     Go  back 
on  the  men ! 


26       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 
[Answering  a  knock  on  the  door] 
Come  in! 

[Enter  Jennie  with  a  large  dark  shawl 
wrapped  around  her  head  and  shoulders] 

Jennie 
Good  evenin*,  father. 

John 
Good  evenin*,  daughter. 

Jennie 
Hello,  Mary. 

Mary 
[Rising  from  her  seat  hut  working  on  a 
flower] 
How  are  ye,  Jennie? 

Jennie 
[Warming    her    hands] 
How's  Bennie  t'day? 

Mary 
Not  much  better'n  he  was. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       27 

John 
Here,  have  a  chair,  Jennie. 

[Placing  the  chair  Left  before  stove] 
I   saw  Henry  in   headquarters   today.     He  was 
lookin*  mighty  worn.     It's  a  hard  strike  an' 
we're  all  pretty  near  used  up.     How  ye  been 
gettin'  on?    An'  how's  Nellie? 

Jennie 
It's  pretty  hard  on  all  the  men,  Dad;  an*  on  the 
women  folk  harder  than  the  men  even;  but 
we  manage  t'  scrape  along. 

John 
The  youngster  happy? 

Jennie 

Wants  t'  come  back  home.  .  .  .  She  asked  Henry 
— Oh,  I  near  forgot!  Henry  told  me  t'  say 
as  ye're  wanted  in  headquarters  this  evenin*. 
The  men  decided  t'  have  another  meetin' 
after  ye  left.  McCarthy's  goin'  t'  talk  t' 
them.  He  seems  t'  have  got  wind  o'  some- 
thin*. 

John 

\With  a  long,  low  whistle] 
So!    Then  I'd  better  go  right  along. 


28       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

[He  takes  his  cap  from  the  hook  and 
makes  for  the  door] 

Mary 
[Going  hastily  to  him] 
Father,  if  ...  if  Joe's  in  the  meetin*  too,  tell 
him  I  must  see  him  t'night. 

John 
Sure,  little  girl  ...  he  said  he'd  come  sure,  but 
I'll  tell  him.     It'll  probably  be  a  long  meetin' 
this  evenin'.  .  .  .     Good  night,  child. 
[He  kisses  Mary] 
Don't  worry  .  .  .  an'  eat  somethin'.  .  .  .     Good 
night,  Jenn. 

[Exit  John] 

Jennie 
[Rising  and  calling  after  him] 
Good  night!  .  .  .     Here's  a  loaf  o'  bread,  Mary. 
Home-made!  ...  I    baked    today,     an'     I 
thought  as  how  ye'd  like  th'  taste  of  a  bit 
o'  real  bread. 

[Pause] 

Mary 

[Taking  the  loaf  of  bread  and  laying  it 
on  the  table  Left] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       29 

Ye*re    awful    good  t*    bring  it,  Jenn.    We  .  .  . 
we  .  .  . 

Jennie 
[Going    to    cradle] 
An'  poor  little  Ben !  .  .  .  I  jes*  know  how  he  wor- 
ries you.    Ye  love  these  yoiingsters  s*  much. 
None  of  us  cared  s*  much  as  you  did  .  .  .  not 
even  mother. 

[as  Mary  resumes  her  work  at  table  Right] 
Well,  I  care  too,  but  .  .  . 

[Pause  in  which  the  child  utters  a  cry] 
Ye  poor  Httle  feller! 

[She  rocks  the  cradle] 
Yes,  I  care  too  .  .  .  but  poor  folks  like  me  an' 
Henry  ain't  got  no  right  t'  bring  children  into 
th'  world.  If  it's  a  sin,  /  say  it's  less  a  sin 
preventin'  'em  than  bringin'  'em  into  a  life  o' 
bitter  poverty. 

[The  child  cries  again] 
Ye  poor  little  mite! 

[She  rocks  him,  smoothing  his  crib  for 
him] 
Where's  mother? 

Mary 
Takin'  the  laundry  to  the  boss's  wife.     An'  father 


30    .  THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

says  as  how  she  ain't  goin'  t'.  get  no  more 
washin'  from  'em  'cause  th'  boss  found  out 
as  how  Joe's  been  leadin'  the  young  fellers 
in  this  strike;  an' — ^jes'  because  Joe's  .  .  . 
Joe's  .  .  .  engaged  t*  me  .  .  . 

Jennie 
Has  he  been  'round  lately? 

Mary 
He's  comin'  t'night,  maybe. 

Jennie 
How  long  since  he's  been  here? 

Mary 
Over  a  week. 

Jennie 
D'ye  know  why? 

Mary 
I  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

[She  bends  over  the  work] 

Jennie 
Ye 've  heard,  then.  .  .  .     It's  off  wi'  th'  old  an'  on 
wi'  th'  new!  .  .  .     But  don't  take  it  s'  much 
t'  heart,  sister.    Joe's  a  good  sort  as  men  go, 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       31 

an*  hell  try  t*  get  over  it.  .  .  .  He*s  always 
thought  pretty  well  o'  ye.  He  wouldn't  ha* 
got  engaged  t'  ye  after  knowin'  ye  a  whole 
year,  an*  give  ye  a  ring  an*  all  that,  an*  stayed 
engaged  fer  two  years  if  he  didn't  care  fer  ye. 

Mary 

But  he  don*t   care  now  ...  he  don*t  care  no 

more  ...  an*  ...  an*  ..  .  Oh,  Jennie! 

Jennie 
Why,  little  sister,  yer  heart's  breakin*.  .  .  .  What 
is    it?  .  .  .  It's    not    only    th*    other    girl's 
troublin*  ye?    Mary!  .  .  .  Mary!  .  .  . 

Mary 
Oh,  don*t  askme! 

Jennie 
[Leaning  over  her] 
But      I      will  .  .  .  but      I      must  .  .  .  it — it's 
somethin*  terrible — Mary!      I*m    right  .  .  . 
ain*t  I?  .  •  .     Mary  .  .  .  Mary! 

Mary 

\With  her  face  in  her  hands] 
Oh,  Jennie! 


32       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Jennie 
Tell  me,  dear. 

Mary 
I  can't,  I  can't,  I  can't!  .  .  , 

Jennie 
[A  pause] 
Then  shall  I  tell  youl  ...     Shall  I  whisper  t*  ye  .  .  . 
[Mary  nods  her  head;  Jennie  whispers 
something  in  her  ear] 

Mary 

[Burying  her  head  in  her  arms] 
Oh,  God,    Oh,  God! 

Jennie 
[Pacing  up  and  down  before  Mary] 
Good  God,  child!    What  11  we  do  wi'  ye!  .  .  . 
This    is    dreadful!  ...  Oh,     Mary!     How 
could  ye  get  yerself  into  sech  awful  trouble? 
How  could  ye  let  sech  a  thing  happen  t'  ye? 

Mary 

Do  ye  think  we  was  thinkin'?    We  .  .  .  we  .  .  . 

why,  why  ...  it  jes'  happened  .  .  .  I  .  .  . 

I  .  .  .  was    dazed,    an'    afterward  .  .  .  oh, 

Jenn,  we  was  afraid!  .  .  .    We  was  afraid 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       33 

all  the  time,  an*  wotildn't  ever  be  left  alone 
together. 

Jennie 
[Going  to  her  and  embracing  her] 
When  did  it  happen,  dear? — ^Tell  me. 

Mary 
Soon — soon  after — New  Year's. 

Jennie 
Then     it's — it's — When     were    ye — sure    o' — o' 
— this,  child? 

Mary 
Oh,  Jenn!  .  .  .  I've  been  waitin'  an'  waitin'  t' 
be  sure  it  wasn't  true;  bein'  afraid,  but  not 
bein'  dead  certain.  .  .  .  But  nothin'  hap- 
pened. .  .  .  Last  night  I  didn't  sleep  all  night 
jes'  thinkin'  an'  thinkin'  an'  thinkin'!  .  .  . 
Fer  I  knew  it  was  true — Oh 

Jennie 
Poor  child,  poor  child !    What's  t'  be  done 


Mary 
[Rising 
The  whole  town'll  tear  me  t'  pieces  when  they  get 
t'  know.     The  neighbours  11  have  nothin'  t' 


34       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

do  with  me,  my  friends  11  give  me  up — even 
my  best  friends  .  .  .  an*  I'll  lose  my  job,  .  .  . 
They  won't  give  work  t'  Mary  Lacey  when 
they  c'n  get  all  sorts  o'  better  girls.  .  .  .  My 
work '11  last  only  a  little  while  longer,  then 
I'll  have  t'  quit.  .  .  .  Oh,  I  know,  Jenn. 
IVe  been  thinkin',  thinkin'!  All  night  long 
an*  all  day.  ...  I  seem  t*  've  grown  a  hun- 
dred years  older  since  yesterday.  .  .  .  Why, 
Jenn,  everythin'  I  ever  heard  came  back 
t'  me  in  th'  night  kind  o'  realer  an'  stronger 
like,  jes'  as  if  they  never  meant  nothin' 
t'  me  before  an'  now  they  mean  real  big 
things.  ... 

[With  a  burst] 

Ain't  I  got  a  right  t'  my  baby?  Ain't  it  got  a 
right  t'  come  into  th'  world  an'  be  cared  fer 
when  it  gets  here?  No,  they  hound  ye  t' 
death  till  ye're  glad  t'  hide  in  hell  t'  get  away 
from  'em.  An'  it's  race  suicide  they  say? 
...  It  ain't  me  that  wants  t'  murder  my 
baby — it's  them  that  c'n  help  me  but  won't, 
them  that  would  treat  me  like  I  wasn't 
human  no  more — like  I  was  a  wild  beast. 
...  I  want  my  baby — I  want  t'  keep  it!  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       35 

Jennie 
Mary,  dear,  ye  mus'n't  excite  yerself  like  that.     It 
ain*t  good  fer — fer  the  baby,  Mary.      Here. 
[She  leads  her  to  the  old  sofa  where  they 
sit] 
Come,  come.     Of  course,  dear, 

[Patting    Mary's    hands   and    talking 
very  soothingly] 
of  course,  ye'll  have  yer  baby.     Ye  must  tell 
Joe  an' 

Mary 
No,  Jenn,  no.     I  can't  tell  Joe. 

Jennie 

But  ye  must,  Mary  .  .  .  you  an'  Joe  must  get 
married  right  off.  There  mus'n't  be  no  more 
waitin'  .  .  . 

Mary 

No,  Jenn. 

Jennie 
Why,  what  d'ye  mean,  child,  of  course  ye  will! 
D'ye  suppose  ye 're  goin'  t'  wait  till  we're 
all  disgraced — till  yer  ashamed  t'  show  yer 
face  in  th'  light  o'  day,  till  all  yer  friends 
shun  ye  an'  everybody  points  a  finger  at  ye 


36       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

an*  calls  ye  a  vile  name? — Ye'd  'a  been 
married  long  ago  if  ye  both  hadn't  waited 
fer  better  times,  but  ye've  got  t'  marry  now, 
good  times  or  not,  ye've  got  t'. 

Mary 
I  won't,  Jenn.     IVe  said  it  t'  myself  a  hundred 
times  t'day  an'  I  ain't  changed  my  mind — 
an'  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'. 


Jennie 


But — Maryl- 


Mary 
It's  no  use,  .  .  .  it's  no  use  talkin'  about  it.  .  .  . 
Joe  wouldn't  want  t'  marry  me  now. 

Jennie 
[Leaping    to    her  feet] 
Wouldn't  want  t' — wouldn't  want  t'  if  ye  told 
him? — Why,    of    course    he'd    want  t'  .  .  . 
an'  anyhow  he'd  have  t'  if  he  wanted  t'  or 
•  not!— Th' idea! 

Mary 
No,  Jenn.    First  there's  his  crippled  father  an' 
his  sick  mother — an'  he  the  only  one  lookin* 
out  fer  'em — ^he  can't  leave  'em — an' 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       37 

Jennie 
Then  why  in  th*  name  o*  goodness  didn^t  ye  both 
remember 

Mary 

Jennl 

Jennie 
Oh,  yes,  dear,  I  understand;  jes'  lost  yer  heads. 
But  now  ye've  got  t*  take  th*  consequences, 
you    an'    Joe, — ye've   got    t'    get    married 
whether  ye  c'n  afford  it  or  not. 

Mary 
[Going  to  the  window  Left] 
But  affordin*  it  ain't  all — it  ain't  all.  He's  been 
crazy  fer  Bertha  Mason  since  he's  set  eyes  on 
her,  ye  know  he  has,  an'  look  at  this  letter 
from  Sallie  Jamison.  She  knows,  she  sees 
*em,  an'  d'ye  think  I'd  make  him  marry 
me  when  he — he — don't  care  fer  me  no 
more.  ... 

Jennie 
[Looking  at  the  letter   and  pacing  the 
floor] 
He'll  get  over  Bertha  Mason — he's  got  t'! — He's 


38       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

got  t'  stand  by  ye — an*  stand  by  th*  baby, 
gettin'  over  it  or  not  gettin*  over  it. 
[She  returns  the  letter] 

Mary 
No,  I  won't  have  him  like  that.  ...     I  won't! 
Even  if — I — have  t* 

Jennie 
[Stopping  short  and  facing  Mary] 
If  ye  have  t* — what?    Ye're  not  gettin*  foolish 
notions  into  yer  head,  are  ye?    Tell  me,  what 
*re  ye  thinkin*  about? 

Mary 
I — I — can't  "marry  Joe.     That's   settled,   settled 
fer  good.    An*  if  ye  tell  Joe  he'll — ^Are  ye 
goin'  t',  Jenn? 

Jennie 
Why  no,  dear.     Not  if  ye  don't  want  me  t'.     But 
^02^  must  tell  him! — You  must  tell  him  yerself ! 

Mary 

I'm  not  a-goin'  t'.  I'll  try  t'  find  a  way  out,  some- 
how .  .  .  some  other  way  out.  An'  if  I 
can't — I'll.  .  .  .  But  ye  must  keep  this — 
this — secret    with   me,  Jenn.  .  .  .     Promise! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       39 

Please  promise!  ...  I  had  t'  tell  someone 
— I — I  couldn't  keep  it  t'  myself — it  was 
killin'  me — an'  I  couldn't  tell  mother — she 
wouldn't  understand  at  all,  an' — an'  father — 
father's  s'  worried  already  an'  has  such  a 
temper  at  times — an'  it'd  break  him  up  s' 
terrible!  .  .  .  Then  there  was  you  .  .  .  an' 
I  thought  ye'd  understand  how  I  feel  about 
marryin'  Joe  now,  an' — an'  it  'd  be  easier  for 
met'— t'  .  .  . 

Jennie 
T'  what,  dear?  Come,  ye  must  try  t'  bear  up 
an'  not  go  on  so,  Mary.  ...  I  won't  say 
anythin'  to  a  soul  if  ye  like  .  .  .  an'  it'd  be 
easier  fer  yet' — ^what? — dear.  .  .  .  Come  tell 
me. 

Mary 

[Sinking  into  her  seat  hy  the  table  Right] 
Oh,  ye  mus'n't,  mus'n't  ever  breathe  a  word  t' 
any  one — never,  no  matter  what  happens. 
Jenn — th'  doctor's  comin'  t'  see  Bennie — 
t'  night,  maybe.  I'd  heard  once  how — how 
...  It  was  jes'  some  talk,  how  th'  boss's 
daughter  was — was — sick,  an'  how  she  got 
over  it — how  a  doctor  helped  her;  an'  how — 


40       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T,^ 

everybody  was  told  it  was — somethin'  else — 
but  it  wasn't.  I— I— I  thought  I*d— -ask  th' 
doctor  t' — t' 


Well,  dear? 
T'— help  me- 


Jennie 

Mary 

Jennie 


Help  ye — 


Mary 

[With  a  burst] 

S'   1*11  keep  my  job — an*  my  friends — s*  father 

won't — won't    be    s*  terribly  angry — s'    Joe 

won't  have  t'  marry  me  .  .  . 

[Long  pause] 

Jennie 
I  see.     I  see. 

[She  contemplates  Mary  with  compas- 
siony  goes  to  her  as  she  rises,  and  enfolds 
her  in  her  arms] 

Mary 
[Extricating  herself] 
An' — an — ^Joe's  maybe  comin'  any  minute,  an,' 
Jennie,  I'd  like  t'  speak  t'  him  by  himself.  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       41 

Jennie 

[Glancing  at  the  time] 

Oh — of  course,  dear;  ye  must  have  a  good  talk 

with  him 

[Taking  her  shawl  and  making  ready 
to  go] 

Mary 
Ye  understand,  Jenn.     I — I'd  want  ye  t*   stay 
but  I  want  t*  see  him  alone  an' 

Jennie 
Of  course,  dear,  I  imderstand — I  understand. 

[They  pause  together  at  the  door] 
Good  night,  Mary. 

[She  lifts  Mary's  face  between  her  two 
hands  and  kisses  her] 
Poor  little  Mary! — Good  night! 

Mary 
Good  night,  Jenn.    Ye  won't  say  a  word! 

Jennie 
Don't  worry,  little  sister — ^jes'   as  if  ye  hadn't 
told  me. 

[Exit  Jennie] 
[Mary  shuts  the  door,  turns  to  the  pic- 
ture of  the  Madonna  and  Child,  lifts  her 


42       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

hands  to  it  sinking  slowly  until  she 
crouches  on  the  floor  beneath  it,  Fumb' 
ling  in  her  blouse  she  draws  forth  the  letter, 
smooths  it  out  against  her  breast,  searches 
with  her  finger  moving  slowly  down  the 
page,  pauses  and  reads] 

You — saw — at — the — dance — how — he — could- 
n't— take — his — eyes — off 'n  her. 

[She  pauses,  gazing  blankly  into  space, 
then,  seeking  another  phrase  with  the 
moving  finger,  she  reads  again] 

Maybe — he'll — get — over — it   .  .  .  an'  maybe — 
he — won't. 

[She  crushes  the  letter  in  her  hand,  looking 
about  the  room  like  a  trapped  thing.  With  a 
sudden  movement,  she  thrusts  the  letter  back 
into  her  blouse,  rises  and  laughs  hysteri- 
cally. Her  laughter  dies  out  into  a  sob. 
She  stands  still  for  a  moment,  then,  rousing 
herself,  suddenly  rushes  to  washstand, 
washes  face  and  hands  hurriedly,  hurries 
hack  to  her  work-table,  takes  from  a  drawer 
a  bit  of  cracked  mirror  in  which  she  at^ 
tempts  to  view  herself ;  finds  a  comb  with 
which  she  smooths  back  her  hair,  then  hur* 
ries  behind  the  curtain  to  the  alcove  and 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       43 

returns  with  a  piece  of  Jaded  Hue  ribbon 
which  she  makes  into  a  bow  and  fastens  in 
her  hair,  again  trying  to  view  herself  in 
the  bit  of  glass  which  she  stands  against 
the  vase  containing  the  American  Beauty 
rose.  She  takes  the  rose  from  the  vase 
and  tries  it  in  her  hair,  but  returns  it  to 
its  place  with  a  sigh.  There  is  a  knock  on 
the  door] 

{Thrusting  the  bit  of  glass  and  comb 
back  into  their  places  and  shutting  the 
drawer  and  adjusting  her  blouse  and  belt, 
she  sits  and  busies  herself  with  her  work, 
singing  out  with  an  affected  cheeriness\ 
C-o-m-e ! 

[Enter  Joe,  a  young  mill-hand  of  two- 
and  twenty;  good-looking,  strong  in  body 
and  tall;  one  would  call  him  a  good  fighter, 
but  he  is  shy  and  uncertain  in  the  following 
interview] 

Mary 
Hello,  Joe! 

Joe 
[Removing  his  cap] 
Hello,  Mary.     How  are  ye? 


44       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Oh,  so-so! 

Joe 
[By   stove] 
It*s — ^pretty  cold  out. 

Mary 
Yes. 

[Pause] 

Joe 
We're  havin'  a  pretty  tough  time  with  this  strike, 
allright. 

Mary 
Ye-es. 

[Pause] 

Joe 
The  boys  *re  stickin*  it  out  fine,  though. 


Mary 

Ye-es. 

[Pause] 

So  Father  says. 

Joe 

I  jes'  saw  him  in  the  meetin'- 

—he  said  ye  wanted 

t*  see  me  this  evenin' 

THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       45 

Mary 

I — want  t* — ^ye-es 

[Rising  and  continuing  work  on  a  flower] 

Joe 

I  was  comin',  anyhow. 

Mary 
[Half  dragging  her  chair  towards  stove] 
Ye  better  sit,  Joe. 

Joe 
[Coming    quickly    forward] 
Let  me,  Mary. 

[He  sets  chair  by  stove] 
H-how  d*ye  feel? 

[Tie  fetches  chair  from  Left  and  both  sit] 
Tell  me,  how  d'ye  feel,  Mary? 

Mary 
Oh,  so-so! 

Joe 

Th-that  ain't  tellin'  me. 

[Pause] 

Are — ye  well? 

Mary 
Oh,  yes. 

[Pause] 


46       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Joe 
N-nothin' — happened? 

Mary 
[Shaking  her  head  in  the  negative  and 
bending  it  low] 
Um-m. 

Joe 
[Leaning   forward    and    touching    her 
hand] 
Mary 

Mary 

[Snatching  her  hand  away  and  clutching 
at  her  blouse  with  the  other] 
Don't! 

Joe 
Why,  Mary,  ye — ye  are  sick! 

Mary 

[Springing  up  from  her  chair] 
No,    I    ain't    sick,    Joe.     I    ain't  sick — I'm  well 
enough.     I    only    been    thinkin' — thinkin' — 
— as  how  ye  ain't — kissed  me  yet 

Joe 
Oh,  Mary!— I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       47 

Mary 
No,   no!    Joe.     Don't   try   t'   now.     *Tain't   no 
use  now.  ...    Ye  don't  care  fer  me  no  more. 
.  .  .     1  know  ye  don't  now 

Joe 

Why,  Mary 

Mary 
Oh,  I  know  it,  Joe,  an'  ye  ain't  a-goin'  t'  deny  it, 

either.      Ye're  in   love  with  another  girl — 

an'  it's  Bertha  Mason 

Joe 

But,  Mary 

Mary 
An'   ye  see  her  home  from  work  every  night — 
an'    ye   ain't   had   time   t'  see  me — I    ain't 
nobody  t'  ye  no  more 

Joe 

But  Mary,  it  ain't 

Mary 
O'  course,  o'  course.  Bertha  Mason's  awful  good- 
lookin',  a  lot  better  lookin'  'n  me 

Joe 

Mary!      I'm — I'm     goin'      t'     marry     ye — I'm 
goin'  t'  stand  by  ye,  ye  imderstan'.      I'm 


48       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

engaged  t'  ye  an'  I'm  goin'  t'  stick.  Never 
mind  my  feelings.  I'll — I'll  try  t'  get  over 
'em.  .  .  .  Honest,  Mary,  I  will.  ...  I'm 
goin'  t'  stand  by  ye. 

Mary 
I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  let  ye,  Joe.  Look  straight 
at  me — so! — an'  tell  me  ye  don't  love 
Bertha  Mason.  .  .  .  See,  ye  can't.  .  .  . 
An'  I  ain't  a-goin'  to  have  no  man  what 
don't  care  fer  me. 

[With  difficulty  pulling  a  ring  from  her 
finger] 
So  I  wanted  t'  see  ye,  so's  I  could  give  ye  back — 

this. 

Joe 
Mary 

Mary 

Take  it,  Joe — ^please  take  it. 

Joe 
Why,  no,  Mary;  what  d'ye  take  me  fer,  anyhow! 
I — I — can't     take     it     back     an'     I     ain't 
a-goin'  t'.      It — ^it — ^ain't  fair,  it  ain't  right! 

Mary 
An'  d'ye  think  it's  right  an'  fair  t'  make  ye  marry 
me  when   ye   don't   care   fer  me  no  more? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       49 

An'  fer  me — t'  go  on  livin'  with  ye  day- 
after  day,  every  day — like  that? — Ye 
must  take  it,  Joe,  ye  must. 

Joe 
[Moving    to    the    door] 
No,  n-no,  ye  must  keep  it!  .  .  .     Ye — ye  ain*t 
well, — Mary. 

[He  is  about  to  support  her  as  she  sways 
a  little — there  is  a  knock  on  the  door] 

Mary 
[Bracing  herself  and  going  toward  the 
door  with  effort] 
Quick,  Joe,  quick!    Take  the  ring  an'  go! 

Joe 

N-no,  no! 

Mary 
[As  the  knock  is  heard  again] 
Come  in ! 

[The  door  opens  and  the  Doctor,  a  tall 
thin  man  of  middle  agCy  walks  in^  carrying 
a  satchel] 

Doctor 
[Breezily   and   with   zest] 
Good  evening,  Miss  Mary, 


50       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Good  evenin',  Doctor. 

Doctor 
Sorry  to  be  so  late — This  was  a  busy  day  for  me. 

Joe 
[In    a    whisper] 
Mary,  ye  are  sick. 

Mary 
N-no,     Joe,     I — I'm      all      right — it's     Bennie. 

He's  been  sick  near  a  week — please   go 

[As  he  goes  douhtingly] 

Here 

[Trying  to  make  him  take  the  ring] 

Joe 
N-no,  Mary. 

[Exit  Joe] 

Mary 
[Rushing  to  the  cradle,  covering  it  entirely 
with  an  old  blanket;  then  to  window  and 
opening  it] 
Joe?    Here,  Joe,  ye  must. 

[She  throws  ring  out  as  JOE  passes] 
There,  it's  by  the  lamp-post. 

[She  shuts  the  window  and  pulls  down 
the  blind] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       51 

Doctor 
[Searching  in  his  ha^ 
How's  the  boy, — better? 

[Extracting  a  bottle  and  musing  over  it] 
Eh?    Miss  Mary,  how  is  he? 

Mary 
[Removing  blanket  from  cradle] 
*Bout  the  same,  Doctor. 

Doctor 
[Taking  out  another  bottle  and  studying 
it] 
Well,  we'll  pull  him  through,  I  guess.      Has  he 
slept  much? 

Mary 
Yes — a  lot. 

Doctor 

[Going  to  cradle^  watch  in  hand] 
That's  good.  ...  I  won't  disturb  him.  I'll  just 
take  his  pulse — hm!      Not   so    bad! — He's 
been  getting  his  medicine  regularly? 

Mary 

Yes,  Doctor. 

[She  carefully  covers  the  child,  rocking 
the  cradle  softly] 


52       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Doctor 
I  want  you  to  keep  on  with  the  same,  and  give 
him  this  besides,  once  every  four  hours.  .  .  . 
How  much  of  the  old  is  there? 

Mary 
[Going  to  shelf  and  taking  down  bottle] 
Jes*  a  little. 

Doctor 
I  guess  we'll  have  to  renew  it. 

Mary 
Here's  what's  left. 

Doctor 

Why,  Miss  Mary,  your  hand's  shaking — you're 
trembling,  and  your  face  is  white.  You're 
ill!    Just  let  me 

Mary 
No,  no,  no,  Doctor!    I — I'm  well,  I — I'm  all  right. 

Doctor 
No,    you're    not    all    right — you're    feverish — I 
guess  your  trouble  is  too   hard   work — wor- 
rying too  much  over  the  little  brother  as 
well.     I'll  have  to  prescribe  a  tonic. 

[He  sits y  draws  out  a  prescription  pad, 
and  writes] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       53 

Mary 
I — I — don't  need  it,  Doctor — ^please  don't — any- 
how,   I   can't    afford    no    tonics — please — it 
ain't  necessary. 

Doctor 

Very  well,  then,  if  you  insist. 

[He  tears  the  slip,  puts  on  his  overcoat 

with  a  swift  businesslike  movement,  takes 

up  his  satchel,  and  moves  to  the  door] 

But  you're  not  well.      Better  not  work  so  hard, 

Miss    Mary! — Let's   see,    I'll   be  here  on — 

Mary 
Doctor!    Doctor!     Don't  go  'way!    Don't  leave 
me!     I — I — I — ^want  ye  t' — t'  help  me! — Ye 
must  help  me! 

Doctor 

[Returning] 
Why — why — Miss     Mary!      Something    is    the 
matter! 

Mary 

Doctor,  ye — ^ye  must  help  me,  or  I'll — I'll 

[A  long  pauseinwhichtheDoCTOR  regards 
her  with  a  peculiar  half-puzzled  expression] 
Oh,  I  want  to  keep  my  friends,  an'  my  folks,  an' 
my  work.  .  .  . 


54       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Doctor 

You  frighten  me! — ^What  is  it  you  want  me  to  do 
for  you? 

[Mary,  working  her  hands  nervously^ 
remains  silent.  The  Doctor  comes  for- 
ward and  looks  long  and  earnestly  into  her 
face^  while  her  head  droops  low  and  lower 
until  finally  she  sinks  with  a  groan  to  her 
knees  and  buries  her  face  in  her  hands] 

Why,  child,  is  it  possible!  .  .  . 

[Laying  aside  his  coat  and  satchel  and 
sitting  at  table  Right] 
Is  it  possible!  ,    .    . 

[Pause] 
But,  of  course,  he  is  going  to  marry  you! 

Mary 
No. 

Doctor 

[Rising  to  his  feet] 
The  scoundrel!    And  IVe  always  thought  him  a 
very  decent  chap! 

Mary 
[Lifting  her  head] 
He  is  decent,  Doctor.     Ye  ain't  made  no  mistake 
'bout  him.  .  .  .     He 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       55 

Doctor 

Decent,  and 

Mary 
He's  in— love — ^with — somebody  else  now. 

Doctor 
Somebody  else! 

Mary 
An'  I  ain't  a-goin'  t'  have  him  like  that 

Doctor 

Won't  have  him! 

Mary 
No,  not  like  that.    When  he  don't  care  fer  me 
no  more. 

Doctor 

You  don't  mean  to  tell  me  that  you 

Mary 
Nothin'  could  make  me  take  him  now. 

Doctor 


But,  my  dear  child- 


Mary 

An'  ye  must  help  me,  Doctor,  ye  must — ye  must ! 

Or  I  jes'  can't  go  on  a-livin' — I — I 

[She  approaches  him  on  her  knees] 


56       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Doctor 

Wliy,  Miss  Mary,  you  talk  like — ^What's  in 
your  mind,  child? 

Mary 

Don't  say  ye  won't,  Doctor;  don't  say  ye  won't! 

Ye  see  what'd  happen  t'  me — I'd  lose  my  job, 

an' — an'  my  friends'd  go  back  on  me,  an'  my 

father'd  be  jes'  s'  mad! — Oh,  I  couldn't  go  on! 

I  couldn't  go  on  livin'  like  that.     Doctor,  I 

[Turning  her  face  from  him] 
I — want  my — baby!    But  I — I  mus'n't  have  it — 
I  mus'n't! 

Doctor 

Miss  Mary!  Do  you  realize  what  it  is  you're 
asking  me  to  do?  You're  asking  me  to 
commit  a  crime. 

[She  starts  and  stares  at  him] 

You  are  asking  me  to  take  a  human  life — You  are 
asking  me  to  do  that  which  would  send  me  to 
prison  for  a  long  term  of  years.  And  your 
crime  would  be  no  less  than  mine.  You 
want  to — murder  your  baby! 

Mary 
Ah! 

[She  utters  a  sharp  cry^  rises  and  recoils] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       57 

Doctor 
'  Thou  shall  not  kill!" 


Mary 

My  baby — ^my — my — I — No,  no,  no!  ...  But 
everybody'll.  .  .  .  They'll  jes*  murder  me 
an*  m*  baby  every  day.  They'll  murder  us 
every  hour  in  th*  day. 

[She  muses,  shuddering 

Shall  it  be  killin'  all  at  once,  or  killin'  every  momin,* 
noon,  an'  night? — My  baby!  .  .  . 
[Rousing  herself  and  with  fierceness] 

Murder!  Murder! — ^An'  they  send  us  t'  prison 
fer  this — ^Who  sends  us — the  "respectable" 
folk  that  goes  t'  church  on  Sundays  an* 
robs  us  on  Mondays,  so's  they  c'n  live  in 
fine  houses  an'  wear  fine  clo's, — an'  be 
educated  fine,  an'  keep  their  looks,  an' 

Doctor 
Who's  been  filling  your  head  with  this  stuff  and 
nonsense  about  our  best  people? 

Mary 
Yes,  defend  'em.     Is  th'  boss  o'  th'  mills  ever 
arrested  fer  cripplin'  th'  men  in  th'  works? 
— ^Fer    killin'    them    outright    even?     Don't 


58       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

they  wring  the  sweat  an*  blood  out  of  us  an' 
buy  laws  with  it  t*  protect  themselves?  Who's 
been  fillin'  my  head — everythin' ! 

Doctor 
A  blatant  socialist,  more  likely. 

Mary 
It  don't  make  no  difference,  it's  th'  truth.  Who's 
crippled  Joe's  father?  An'  who's  left  him 
without  no  help?  Th'  boss  o'  th'  mills.  He 
worked  fer  near  fifteen  years,  an'  when  his 
hands  was  caught  an'  crushed,  th'  boss  threw 
him  out  an'  left  him  t'  Joe  t'  look  after,  while 
he  lives  in  the  sweat  o'  Joe's  brow.  Joe  an' 
me,  we  might  'a'  got  married  an'  had  a  home 
of  our  own  three  years  ago;  an'  I'd  'a'  kept 
him  true  if  Td  'a'  had  him  where  I  could  he 
a-lovirC  him  every  day,  even  if  we  did  have  t' 
live  simple;  but  with  a  crippled  father  an'  a 
sick  mother  on  his  shoulders  an'  hard  work, 
an'  no  prospec's, — an'  wantin'  a  little 
pleasure  ...  an'  me  gettin'  tireder  an'  tire- 
der  aU  th'  time — an'  he  driftin'  along  like, 
an' — an' — th-this  happenin'  an'  kind  o' 
scarin'  us  cold  .  .  .  an'  a  pretty  face  comin' 
along,  an'  makin'  eyes  at  him,  an'  knowin* 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       59 

he's  not  a  married  man,  an*  knowin*  he's  only- 
engaged  t' — well — ^jes'  me!  .  .  .  I  see  how 
it's  all  happened — an'  how  it's  all  been  fer 
woridn'  oiirselves  deaf  an*  dumb  an'  blind  fer 
th'  men  in  th'  fine  houses  on  th'  hill,  while 
we're  starvin'  fer  real  homes  an'  a  little  love, 
an'  jes'  go  crazy  fer  th'  lack  of  'em.  .  .  . 
Doctor,  Doctor,  don't  say  ye  won't  help  me, 
don't  say  ye  won't ! 

Doctor 
[Sitting  at  table  Right] 
My  dear  child,  I 

Mary 

[On  her  knees] 

Don't  say  ye  won't.  Doctor.     Save  me,  save  me! 

Doctor 

[Springing  to  his  feet] 

Child,  don't  ask  me  to  do  it!     It's  impossible! 

— Criminal ! — Heaven  help  us,  in  my  profession 

we  kill  often  enough  where  we  mean  to  save! 

Shall  I  deliberately  take  a  human  life !    No,  no, 

Miss  Mary,  it's  absolutely  out  of  the  question! 

[He  turns  to  get  his  hat  and  coat,    Mary 

clings  desperately  to   him,   clutching  his 

clothing] 


6o       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Doctor,  I  tell  ye  plain,  I'll  take  my  life  t*  get  out 
o'  this! 

Doctor 
Good  God,  child,  what  a  thing  to  say! 

[Helping  her  to  a  seat  on  the  sofa  and 
taking  one  beside  her] 
You — ^you  mus'n't  think  of  such  a  thing.     Here, 
now!  .  .  .     Why,   Miss  Mary,  you  are  out 
of  your  head — clean  out  of  your  head. 

Mary 
Oh  God,  God,  God! 

Doctor 

You  have  no  right  to  say  this  sort  of  thing — you 
particularly,  Miss  Mary. 

Mary 
I — I  have  no — bright? 

Doctor 

[As  he  follows  her  mental  processes  and 

gives  her  plenty  of  time  after  each  sugges' 

tion  to  let  the  truth  sink  in] 

No,  you  have  no  right!    You  are  thinking  only 

of  yourself.      What   about   your  mother? — 

Your   father? — your    two    little    sisters    and 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       6i 

your  baby  brother? — Yes,  think  of  them. 
.  .  .  Your  father's  on  strike.  .  .  .  And 
there's  no  telling  when  the  strike  will  be  ended 
and  he  go  back  to  work.  ...  I  understand 
your  mother  gets  a  little  washing  to  do,  but 
that  wotddn't  keep  even  herself  alive,  let 
alone  the  children.  ...  I  see  you're  aware 
of  the  situation!  .  .  .  Just  for  a  moment 
you  forgot,  but  you  mustn't  forget.  .  .  .  You 
are  the  one  support  of  your  family  just  now, 
and  at  other  times  you're  a  great  help.  .  .  . 
They  couldn't  get  on  without  you  .... 
Don't  sob  like  that,  Miss  Mary,  don't!  .  .  . 
It'll  be  hard,  I  know  .  .  .  but  you  will  go 
on? — For  their  sake? — Say  you  will.  .  .  . 
Come.  ...  At  any  rate  until  it's  less  hard 
on  them.  .  .  . 

Mary 
It — it    was    weak    an'    foolish    o'    me — Ye-es, 
yes — I'll    go    on — I'll   go    on.    There    ain't 
nothin'  else  t*  do. 

Doctor 
[Rising  and  taking  her  two  hands  in  his 
own] 
You're  a  fine  brave  girl,  Miss  Mary. 


62       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

[A  pause  in  which  he  gazes  with  fatherly 

compassion  on  her  while  she  hangs  her  head] 

I'm  so  glad  to  hear  you  say  that.    You  shotdd 

be  glad  for  a  more  vital  reason  that  I'm  not 

willing  to — to  *'help"  you  Miss  Mary! 

[She  looks  up  and  he  looks  solemnly  into 
her  eyes] 
You  love  children ;  and  I'm  going  to  tell  you  what 
doctors  don't  usually  tell  girls  who  come  to 
them  in  trouble  as  you  came  to  me.  It's 
this:  that  such  interference  with  nature  often 
results  in  a  woman's  longing  for  a  child  all 
the  rest  of  her  life — in  vain. 

[She  looks  blankly  at  him,  then  drops 
her  eyes] 
If  I  helped  you  as  you  wanted  me  to,  it  might  have 
meant  no  babies  for  you — All  your  life! 
[Mary  gives  a  hushed  little  gasp] 
You're     a     brave    girl,    Miss    Mary — and: — I'll 
do  what  I  can  to  help.     There  won't  be  any 
charges  for  Bennie  and  I'll  look  after  the 
medicine. 

[Taking  up  the  satchel  and  offering  his 
hand] 
And  you  won't  hesitate  to  call  on  me  whenever 
you  should  need  me? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       63 

Mary 
[Shaking  his  hand] 
Ye're  so  kind,  Doctor.    I — I — Ye^re  kinder  than 
I  knew, 

[She  rises] 

Doctor 
And  1*11  be  here  tomorrow  to  look  in  on  the  child. 
Keep  him  warm,  at  all  costs;  it's  important. 
[He  goes  to  door  as  Ka.tie  enters] 

Mary 
Warm! 111  try. 

Doctor 
Hello,  Katie,  pretty  cold  out,  eh? 

Katie 

Um-um! 

[Blowing  into  her  hands] 

Doctor 
Well,    don't    hug    the    stove    too    hard! — Good 
night.  Miss  Mary. 

Mary 
Good  night,  Doctor. 

[Exit  Doctor] 


64       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katie 

{Hopping  about  to  get  her  feet  warm] 

Oh,  Mary,  guess  what  I  got! 

Mary 

[Listlessly] 

What? 

Katie 
Guess  what. 

Mary 
[Picking   up   the   crumpled   letter   and 
throwing  it  into  the  fire] 
Give  me  an  idea. 

Katie 
It's  something  for  you! 

Mary 
[Going  to  washstand  Left] 
Fer  me  ? — Somethin'  fer  me? 
Katie 
Yes,  somethin'  fer  you — from  somebody! 
Mary 
[Wetting    a    handkerchief   with    water 
from  the  pail] 

Somethin'  fer  me  from  somebody? 

[She  wrings  it  out] 
What  can  it  be? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       65 

Katie 
Well  try  to  guess!  .  .  . 

Mary 
But  who's  th'  somebody? 

Katie 
Oh,  guess.  .  .  .    Just  try! 

Mary 
[Coming  forward,    slowly   passing   the 
handkerchief  over  her  forehead] 
*Tain*t  no  use,  Katie,  I  ain't  no  good  at  guessin*. 

Katie 
[Holding  out  her  closed  hand] 
But   it's   something   nice — something   new — from 
somebody  nice. 

Mary 
[Going  toward  Katie] 
Somethin ' — nice — ^f  rom 

Katie 
Why  yes!    Something  awful  nice.     I  met  Joe  as 
he  was  coming  home,  an*  he  said :  *'  Here  Katie, 

give  Mary  this  ring,"  an' 

[Opening  her  hand  and  observing  it  with 
disappointment] 
Why,  it' ^  your  ring,  Mary — ^what  Joe  gave  you  once. 


66       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Taking  it  from  Katie] 
No,  *tain*t  my  ring! — 'Tain't  mine  no  more. 

[She  goes  to  the  stove  and  throws  the  ring 

into  the  fire] 

It's — ^it*s    all — right,   dear.     Only    don't    say    a 

word  t'   nobody,    now! — Not  t'  Father   an' 

not  t'  Mother,  nor  t'  anybody,  will  ye  Katie? 

Kj^TIE 

\With  a  decided  shake  oj  the  head] 
Mm-um!    If  you  say  so,  I  won't. 

Mary 

I  know  ye  won't,  dear.  .  .  .    Did  ye  do  yer  lessons 
with  Lizzie  Jones? 

Katie 
No,  I  was  so  hungry!    I  couldn't  think  of  them 
at  all.  .  .  .     I'm  ^0  hungry,  Mary! 

Mary 
[At  table  Right] 
Here's  a  nice  bit  o'  bread  an'  jam,  dear. 

Katie 
Oh!— Mary! 

She  sits  on  the  stool  near  table  and  eats 

ravenously,    Mary  contemplates  her  for 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       e] 

a  moment^  looks  on  the  child  in  the  cradle, 
tucks  the  blankets  well  about  him,  goes  to  the 
stove  and  puts  a  few  pieces  of  coal  on  the 
fire,  almost  counting  out  the  pieces;  returns 
to  the  table,  again  contemplates  Kj^tie, 
still  eating,  drops  into  a  seat,  takes  up 
material,  and  gets  busily  to  work  on  the 
flowers.  But  soon  the  stuff  drops  from 
her  fingers;  her  head  bends  low,  and  a  sob 
escapes  her  as 

THE  CURTAIN  DESCENDS. 


ACT  II 

Scene:  Same  as  Act  /,  two  months  later — a  forenoon 
in  early  May,  In  place  of  the  ironing  hoard 
are  two  washtubs,  each  set  on  a  bench.  Ben- 
nie's  cradle,  bottom  up,  stands  against  the 
wall  near  window  Right, 

Discovered:  As  the  curtain  rises,  Katherine  is 
seen  disappearing  through  the  door  with  a 
wash-basket  full  of  newly  washed  clothes; 
then  through  window  Left  hanging  them  up 
on  the  lines  in  the  yard.  Mary,  in  a  dark 
dress,  her  figure  half  hidden  in  a  soft  black 
shawl,  is  seated  at  table  Left  intently  looking 
into  a  book,  McCarthy,  a  man  of  about 
forty,  clean-shaven,  clean-featured,  slightly 
'  grey  and  with  lines  of  battle  on  his  face  and 
a  kindly  keen  light  in  his  eye,  is  standing 
beside  her  bending  to  see  into  the  book, 
McCarthy 

No,  Mary,  not  close  but  close,  ,  ,  ,  *'The  close 
of  the  nineteenth  century."  Meaning  the 
end  of  the  nineteenth  century. 

68 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       69 

Mary 
I  see.     Like  the  closin*  of  a  door. 

McCarthy 
Yes,  that's  it.     Or,  like  the  closing  of  a  book  .  .  . 
close. 

Mary 

\With  concentration] 
Close — close — of — the — nineteenth — century. 

[With  a  quick  lift  oj.  the  head] 
It's   all   s'    strange — leamin'    t'    read  good,  Mr. 
McCarthy.     Now  here's  close  an*  close  spells 
jes'  the  same  way;  an'  clo's,  which  is  pro- 
nounced th'  same  way,  's  spelled  c-1-o-t-h-e-s! 
[McCarthy  laughs  softly,  half -amused, 
half-pitying;  but  Mary  does  not  notice  him] 
I  know  that  is  th'  word  fer  I  read  it  in  this  book 
somewhere,  only  yesterday.     About  th'  clo's 
th'  rich  wear  in  th'  cities,  an'  th'  clo's  th'  poor 
wear;  an'  where  th'  rich  get  their  clo's  from 
an'  why  th'  poor  ain't  got  no  clo's.  ...  I 
can't  find  th'  place. 

McCarthy 
I  know  where.  .  .  .     Here  it  is.    But  that  word's 
pronounced  clothes! 


70       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Oh,  I  see. 

McCarthy 
Clothes — Repeat  it  please,  Mary. 

Mary 
Clothes — I  see  .  .  .  clothes. 

McCarthy 
Now  spell  the  whole  word  out,  and  pronotince  it. 

Mary 
C-1-o-t-h-e-s — clothes. 

McCarthy 

Again. 

Mary 
C-1-o-t-h-e-s — clothes. 

McCarthy 
So. 

[Shutting  down  the  covers  of  the  hook] 
That    will    be    all    the    reading  for  today — and 
your  last  lesson  from  me,  Mary. 

Mary 
I*m  s*  sorry,  Mr.  McCarthy! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       71 

McCarthy 
But  you  must  keep  on  learning.  YouVe  progress- 
ing wonderfully;  and  you're  mighty  quick  at 
getting  the  meanings  of  words.  That's  more 
important  than  getting  their  pronunciations 
down  pat. 

Mary 

I  do  try  t'  learn,  Mr.  McCarthy,  try  awfully  hard 

.  .  .  'cause — 'cause  I  want  t'  know. 

[Eagerly  and  anxiously] 

It's  s'  much  easier  t'  get  on  with  folks — an*  with 

work — when  a  woman 

[Carefully  watching  her  English] 
isn't  entirely  ignorant. 

McCarthy 
Quite  right,  Mary;  and  if  all  the  workers  who 
don't  know  would  strive  hard  to  learn  .... 

Mary 
Yes,  if  they  all  would! — that  book  is  right  about 
it:  ^'Edjucation — organization"  .  .  .  then 
they  could  do  everythin'  f'r  themselves!  I 
wish  /  knew  how  t'  talk  to  'em  as  you  do, 
Mr.  McCarthy.  Ye  do  s'  much  good.  An' — 
— an* — ^yer  children  mus'  respect  ye  lots 
*cause  ye  know! 


72       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

McCarthy 
[With  a  gentle  amused  laugh] 
Well,  yes — I  guess  it's  good  to  know  something 
of  the  world  of  thought.     One  can  be  of  some 
use  in  the  world.     And  as  far  as  one's  children 
go,  they  don't  despise  their  parents  quite  so 
'  much — ^as    they    so    often    do    when    their 
parents    are    ignorant    and     without     any 
schooling. 

Mary 
Unless  the  children  start  t'  work  early  t'  earn, 
an'    never    have    no    chance — a    chance  — 
t'  learn. 


McCarthy 


True  enough. 


Mary 
As  I  did — But  I  won't  stay  s'  ignorant — I  won't! 
[Rising  with  her  book  and  going  to  table 
Right.] 

McCarthy 
No  indeed !    Just  you  go  straight  ahead.    You Ve 
learned  a  lot  in  the  ten  weeks  or  so  I've  been 
here,  and  you'll  keep  it  up,  I  know. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       73 

Mary 
[Arranging  the  flower-making  material 
on  her  table] 
Are  ye  goin'  back  home  t'  Pittsburgh,  Mr.  Mc- 
Carthy? 

McCarthy 
Sure.     Now  the  strike's  well  settled  and  my  organ- 
izing work's  done,  I'll  be  glad  to  spend  a 
while  with  the  wife  and  youngsters,  till  I'm 
called  elsewhere.     Oh,  by  the  way, 

[Taking  a  small  red-covered  pamphlet 
from  his  vest  pocket] 
here's  something   about  the  workers  in  the 
steel  industry  I'd  like  you  to  make  out  when 
you're  along  a  bit  in  yotu"  reading. 

Mary 
[Thrusting  her  hook  in  the  table  drawer 
and  coming  forward] 
Thank  ye,  Mr.  McCarthy. 

[Taking  it] 
I'll  try.     Is  Pittsburgh  a  hard  place  t'  find  work? 

McCarthy 
It  depends. 

Mary 
Per  women  .  .  .  for  instance. 


74       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

McCarthy 
Well,  there  are  any  number  of  rich  women  always 
on  the  lookout  for  ** hired  help."     Why? 

Mary 
I  was  jes'  wonderin*,  that's  all. 

McCarthy 
[Looking  at  his  watch] 
IVe  got  to  run  along  now. 

Mary 
But  Father 

McCarthy 
I'll  drop  in  later  and  say  good-bye  to  your    dad 
and  to  all  of  you. 

Mary 
[Coming  hastily  forward] 
Oh,  Mr.  McCarthy,  yeVe   been  s*   kind  t'  me! 
Bein'  s*  busy  in  th*  strike,  yet  findin*  time 
every  day  t'  help  me.    I  am  s'  thankful  t*  ye! 

McCarthy 
[Moving  to  the  door] 
Oh,  don't  mention  it.     I  feel  the  young  ones  should 
learn,  and  it's  good  to  pick  out  the  aptest, 
and  help  them  a  bit.    The  future  needs  'em. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       75 

Mary 
It's  good  of  ye  t'  take  it  like  that.    An*  yell  sure 
drop  in  again? 

McCarthy 
Yes,  indeedy.    So  long  then! 

Mary 
S'  long,  Mr.  McCarthy. 

[Exit  McCarthy  through  open  door. 
For  a  Jew  moments  Mary  watches  him 
jrom  the  window^  as  he  is  seen  passing 
down  the  street.  Then  she  starts  toward 
her  work'tahhy  halts  for  an  instant^  goes  to 
window  Right,  opens  it,  and  calls] 
How  much  more  hangin*  t*  do,  mother? 

Katherine 
[From  the  yard] 
Plenty  yet! 

Mary 
D  *ye  want  any  help? 

Katherine 
No,  no,  child.    Ye  get  t*  yer  own  work. 

Mary 
Ye  sure  ye  don't  want  me? 


76       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katherine 
Not  a  bit !    A  clear  day  like  this  I  feel  fine. 

[Mary  turns  away  from  the  window  and 
hurries  hack  to  her  table.  She  draws  a 
little  flannel  garment  no  bigger  than  a  dolVs 
from  the  drawer,  sits  with  her  back  to  the 
door  and  sews  hurriedly,  glancing  back 
now  and  again,  at  the  open  door.  As  she 
sews,  she  croons  in  a  half -conscious,  half- 
articulate  fashion.  Now  she  straightens 
out  the  garment,  holds  it  out  at  full  length 
in  her  two  hands,  and  gazes  long,  long 
at  it,  still  crooning;  she  glances  quickly 
back  at  the  door  again,  then  in  silence 
lays  it  against  her  cheek  with  a  low 
moan.] 

Jennie  enters;  walks  over  to  Mary 
and  places  a  hand  on  her  shoulder] 

Mary 

Ah! 

[A  sharp  startled  cry] 
You!    Jennie! 

Jennie 
Mm — mm!    All  alone? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       77 
Mary 


Yes- 


[Hiding  the  little  garment  in  the  drawer] 
How  ye  shook  me  up ! 

Jennie 

What's  that,  Mary? 

Mary 

That — that's   a — a — jes'    somethin'    fer 

[Whispering] 
it. 

Jennie 
Sewin'.    How  d'ye  get  th'  time? 

Mary 
Steal  a  few  minutes  here  an'  there. 

[She  takes  up  a  bunch  of  Easter  lilies 
and  works  in  the  foliage,] 

Jennie 
Now  look  here,  Mary  dear,  I  come  t'  talk  t'  ye 
about  it.  Ye've  got  t'  do  somethin\  Mother 
an'  Father  they're  both  worried  about  yer 
health.  They  complain  ye  don't  eat  an'  ye 
don't  sleep — that  ye  spend  half  th'  night 
workin'  when  ye  should  be  takin'  yer  rest. 
That  ye  won't  go  out  o'  doors,  an'  that  ye 
won't  see  no  doctor. 


78       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 

Wh— what    d'    they    think?     They    don't    say 
much  t'  me, 

Jennie 
No,  o'  course  not.  They  don't  know  what  t' 
think.  Sometimes  they  think  it's  poor  little 
Bennie's  death,  an'  sometimes  they  think 
it's  yer  tryin'  so  hard  t'  pay  th'  funeral 
expenses. 

Mary 
Those  funeral  expenses!  T'  spend  th'  last  penny 
ye've  got,  an'  th'  last  penny  ye  haven't 
earned  yet — fer  weeks  an'  weeks!  It's 
jes'  plain  robbery,  Jenn,  that's  what  it  is. 
When  th'  dead  don't  care  nothin'  about 
their  funeral.  ... 

Jennie 
Yes,  but  folks  think  th'  dead  care. 

Mary 
An'  I  mus'  work  my  fingers  off  t'  pay  th'  under- 
taker, when  I  should  be  lookin'  out  fer — th' 
livin'  .  .  .  th'  livin'  .  .  .  that's  goin'  t'  be! 

Jennie 

But  Mary,  Joe'U  have  t' 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       79 

Mary 
[Not  hearing  her] 
Well,  IVe  laid  a  little  by.     But  IVe  worked  till 
now  I'm  near  t'  droppin'.    An'  I'll  keep  on 
workin'  like  this  till  I've  saved 

Jennie 

[Throwing  her  hands  up  in  exasperation] 

Ye  won't !    Ye  can't  much  longer !    How  long  d'ye 

think  ye  can  keep  'em  ignorant?    They  should 

know  right  now.     They  think  yer  refusin'  t' 

see  Joe  was  jes'  a  lover's  quarrel.     Up  our  way 

now,  they're  sayin'  Joe's  engaged  t'  Bertha ! 

[Mary  takes  the  news  with  a  starts  hut 
immediately  resumes  her  work] 
— yes,  engaged  t'  her!  An*  he's  been  goin* 
aroun'  tellin'  everybody  that  ye  give  him 
up — an'  she's  goin'  aroun'  tellin'  folks  that 
you  were  a  little  fool  an'  that  it  serves  ye 
right  fer  losin'  a  fine  feller  like  Joe,  'cause  ye 
didn't  know  how  t'  treat  him  right.  .  .  . 
They  don't  know  what's  eatin'  ye  .  .  .  they 
don't  know  a  blessed  thing !  But  soon  Father 
an'  Mother'll  see,  an'  then — Oh,  ye  mus'n't 
wait!  Joe  may  be  married  by  that  time, 
who  knows! — Ye  mus'  let  me  tell  Father. 


8o       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Rousing  herself,   throwing  the  flowers 
on  the  work-table,  and  rising] 
No,  no.     Keep  it  t*  yerself  a  little  longer,  Jennie, 
please.     I'll  do  th'  tellin'  meself. 

Jennie 
But  when?      Ye  can't  let  this  thing  go  on  till 
Joe's 

Mary 
{Calmly\ 
Maybe  I'll  tell  *em  t'day,  or  tomorrow. 

Jennie 

[Excited]  ' 

Oh   God! — I  don't  see  how  you  stand  it!     It's 
jes'  kept  me  awake  nights ! 

Katherine 
\Who  has  entered  with  the  empty  clothes- 
basket] 
Yes,  she  keeps  awake  nights,  workin'  an'  readin' ! 
Workin'  an'  readin'!  till  her  blood's  gone  s* 
thin  she's  white  as  a  sheet  an'  cold  as  ice. 

[She  sets  the  basket  on  the  floor  beneath 
the  wringer  on  one  of  the  tubs,  and  sighs] 
There,  ye  see;  that's  th'  way  she  goes  about  in 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       8i 

th'  house,  an'  in  May  weather,  too !    Wrapped 
in  th'  old  shawl  as  if  it  was  December. 

[She  takes  her  place  at  the  tuh,  lifting  a 
piece  of  wet  wash  and  putting  it  through 
the  wringer] 

Mary 
[Coming  painfully  forward] 
Shall  I  tiim  th*  wringer  fer  ye,  mother? 

Jennie 
[Quickly  placing  herself  before  the  tub] 
No,  I'll  do  it,  Mary.     You  go  rest  a  bit. 
[They  exchange  glances] 

Mary 

[Hesitatingly] 
Well,  pVhaps  I  will,  fer  a  few  minutes  .  .  .  before 
settin'  th'  table. 

[She  goes  wearily  to  the  alcove  bed  and 
sinks  upon  it] 

Katherine 

[Lifting  her  hands  out  of  the  tub  and 

waving  them  pathetically  in  the  direction 

of  the  alcove] 

Ye  see,  child,  she's   sick,    t'   death — or   tired   t' 

death — I     don't     know    which!      An'     she 

won't  see  no  doctor,  an'  she  won't  let  up  on 


82       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

her  work  at  all.  All  day,  an*  all  evenin*,  till 
late  in  th'  night  .  .  .  jes*  work,  an'  work,  an* 
work!  .  .  .  She  stops  only  t*  read,  or  t'  snatch 
a  bit  of  a  nap,  like  this.  .  .  .  The  good  Lord 
knows  what's  goin'  t*  be  th*  end  o'  this! 

[She  is  getting  a  piece  of  wash  ready 

for    the    wringer.    Jennie    contemplates 

Katherine  with  a  strange  look,  and  a 

shake  of  the  head,  but  says  nothing 

She  cared  an  awful  lot  fer  poor  little  Bennie; 

mor'n  his  own  mother,  even;  an'  it's  his  mother 

that  says  it — an'  when  the  good  Lord  took 

him  t'  join  th'  angels  in  heaven,  ye  know  how 

she  jes'  cried,  an'  cried,  till  we  thought  she'd 

never  stop!  .  .  .     But  it  can't  be  Bennie's 

goin'.     She's  had  her  spell  over  that. 

[Throwing  her  arms  out  again  toward 
the  bed] 
But  look  at  her! 

[She  wipes  her  eye  with  her  apron  and 
resumes  her  work] 

Jennie 
[Putting  a  piece  of  the  wash  through  the 
wringer] 
No,  mother,  it  can't  be  Bennie. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       83 

Katherine 
What   d'ye   s'pose  it  is  then?  .  .  .    Th*   water 
aint  blue  enough. 

[She  goes  to  cupboard  and  searches] 
What  do  you  think  it  c'n  be? 

Jennie 
Per'aps    she'll   tell  ye — before  long.  .  .  .     Poor 
child!    Whatever  it  is,  ye  mus'n't  be  hard 

on  her.     Maybe  it's 

[Katherine,  who  has  returned  with  the 
blueing,  looks  up  at  Jennie  and  watches 
for  her  words  with  vague  suspicion] 


—Joe. 


Jennie 

[She  bends  over  the  basket  and  shakes 
out  some  of  the  wrung  pieces,  EIatherine 
gives  the  water  the  proper  shade  of  blue] 


Katherine 
Joe;  yes;  she's  quarrelled  hard  with  him!  but  it 
can't  be  only  on  that  account!    He  comes 
one  evenin' — Did  Father  tell  ye? 

Jennie 

No. 


84       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katherine 

Well,  he  comes  one  evenin*,  an*  she  jes*  shows  him 
th'  door.  Jes'  as  plain  as  that.  "You  go 
t'  yer  noo  girl!"  she  cries  t*  him.  Well,  Father 
he  was  in  th'  house;  an*  he  come  near  givin' 
her  a  beatin*. 

Jennie 
Poor  Mary. 

Katherine 
After  Joe  left,  Father  he  jes*  went  fer  her,  he  was 
that  angry. 

[She  pauses  at  her  work] 
"What  noo  girl!    Are  ye  gone  clean  daffy?"  he 
hollers  at  her  all  red  in  the  face 

Jennie 
Oh,  don't  I  know  how  Father  can  get  mad ! 

Katherine 

Well,  Mary  she  tells  him  quiet  an*  sick  like:  "It's 
Bertha  Mason."  Then  Father  swears  some- 
thin*  awful  an*  says  as  how  Joe  wouldn't  be 
comin*  *round  if  he  was  fer  goin'  after  other 
girls.  An'  Mary  she  jes*  gets  all  white  an' 
tremblin*  an*  says,  throwin*  her  head  up 
sudden  an*  saucy  as  she  never  done  in  her 
life  before,  "Ye  see,"  she  says,  "Joe*s  like 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       85 

mos*  other  folks.  He*d  sooner  do  th*  respect- 
able  stunt  than  be  honest!"  Then  Father  he 
slapped  her  face,  he  did. 

Jennie 
Oh,  mother! 

Katherine 
[Resuming  her  work] 
Th'  Lord  fergive  him!    He  was  sorry  sobn  after. 
An*  poor  Mary  didn't  cry,  or  say  nothin'; 
but  jes'  went  straight  back  t*  her  work. 

Jennie 
Poor  little  Mary! 

Katherine 
But  I  don't  know  as  it's  Joe  only  that's  troublin* 
her.     She  seems  t'  have  made  up  her  mind 
an'  has  jes'  washed  her  hands  o'  him.     But, 
of  course,  it  may  be  Joe. 

Jennie 
Yes,  I  think  it  may.  .  .  .     Here,  let's  take  it  out 
together. 

[They  lift  the  basket] 
Katherine 
Father  says  she'll  have  t'  have  Joe,  that's  all, 
whether  she  likes  it  or  not. 

[They  move  toward  the  door] 


86       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Jennie 
Poor  child !      Perhaps  shell  change  her  mind,  an* 
take  him.     But  if  she  don't,  don't  you  folks 
be  too  hard  on  her.    She's  been  a  good  girl. 

Katherine 
Yes,  God  fergive  us,  we  couldn't  'a'  got  on  without 
her  through  all  this  dreadful  trouble  in  the 
mills. 

[They  pass  out  into  the  yard  with  the 
basket,  where  they  are  seen  a  moment 
later  hanging  the  wash  up  on  the  line,] 

[Katie  enters  through  the  open  door. 
She  looks  this  way  and  that,  and  seeing 
no  one,  recites  in  declamatory  tones  and 
with  extravagant  flourishes  to  an  imaginary 
audience] 

Katie 
**For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm  to 
be  Queen  o'  the  May." 

[She  stops  centre  of  stage,  and  looks 
about  her  again  and  continues] 
*' You  must  wake  and  call  me  early,  call  me  early, 
mother  dear; 
Tomorrow'U  be  the  happiest  time  of  all  the  glad 
New  Year; 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       87 

Of  all  the  glad  New  Year,  mother,  the  maddest, 

merriest  day; 
For  I'm  to  be  Queen  o'  the  May,  mother,  I'm 

to  be  Queen  o'  the  May. 
They  say  that " 

Mary 
[Who  has  risen  from  the  bed  and  wearily 
approached  Katie] 
Home  from  school  already!    We  must  hustle  an* 
set  th'  table. 

[Glancing  at  the  clock] 
Father'll  be  home  fer  his  dinner  in  a  few  minutes. 

Katie 
[Only  half  hearing  Mary] 

Hm-hm!  .  .  .  yes " They  say  that "  ...     Oh, 

Mary !    Teacher  is  learning  us  such  a  nice  piece ! 

Mary 
[Moving  to  cupboard  and  getting  a  table- 
cloth] 
Yes?  .  .  .    Come,  Katie  dear,  here's  th'  cloth. 
Katie 
[Taking  it  and  proceeding  to  lay  it  on 
the  table  half  using  her  arms  at  the  same 
time  for  declamatory  gestures] 
Oh,  Mary,  it's  such  a  lovely  piece! 


88       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Fetching   the   plates] 
Yes, — go  on,  dear. 

Katie 
D*ye  want  to  hear  it? 

Mary 
[Getting  the  knives,  forks,  and  spoons,  etc] 
Yes,  dear,  go  ahead. 

Katie 

[Standing  off  a  hit,  and  with  enthusiasm] 

Oh,  listen  to  this.     "I  sleep  so  sound  all  night, 

mother,  ..." 
No,    that    ain't    the   one. — ''They    say    he's — 
they  say — ^he's — "     No,  that  ain't  it  neither. 

Mary 
Come,  dear;  let's  finish  this.     P'raps  ye'll  think 
of  it  afterwards. 

[They  set  the  table  in  silence  for  a  few 
moments.  Only  Katie's  lips  are  moving 
as  she  attempts  to  remember] 

Katie 
Oh,  I've  got  some  of  it!  .  .  .     "The  honeysuckle 
round  the  porch  has  woven  its  wavy  bowers," 
.  .  .     What's  honeysuckle,  Mary? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       89 

Mary 
Well,   it*s — it's  somethin'   that  climbs  round   a 
porch.     It's — a  vine. 

Katie 
A  vine? 

Mary 
Yes.    Jes'  strings  o'  green  leaves  that  goes  climb- 
in'  an'  climbin'  an'  twistin'  an'  twistin'  round 
most  anythin'  they  c'n  catch  hold  on. 

Katie 
How  d'ye  know,  Mary? 

Mary 
I  saw  it  once  on  a  porch,  when  I  was  a  little  girl. 
Father  took  me  t'  a  cousin  o'  his  livin'  in  th' 
country. 

Katie 
Why  do  they  call  it  honeysuckle? 

Mary 

'Cause  there's  a  Httle  flower  on  it  that  smells  jes' 
as  sweet  as  honey. 

Katie 
[In  wonderment] 
Did  ye  smell  it,  Mary? 


90       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 

Mm! — yes.  How  it  did  smell!  It  was  s'  long 
ago,  but  I  still  smell  it  sometimes — in  my 
dreams — an'  when  I  think  o'  how  some 
folks  mus'  be  awful  happy,  th'  smell  o'  them 
honeysuckles  all  comes  back  t'  me. 

[They  work  in  silence  for  a  moment] 

When  I  dream  o'  havin'  a  little  wee  house — o' 
my  own — ^with  a  little  patch  o'  flowers  in 
front  of  it — why,  then!  How  that  honey- 
suckle smells!    Mmm! — ^Awful  sweet! — 

Katie 
[Looking  to  see   what  there   is  in   the 
single  pot  on  the  stove] 
Mary,  why  ain't  we  got  no  honeysuckle? 

Mary 
I  s'pose  th'  smoke  o'  th'  mills  'd  kill  it. 

lKatie 
Oh! 

Mary 
An'  even  if  it  lived,  ye  couldn't  smell  it  through 
all  that  smoke.     Nothin'  but  a  few  sickly 
trees  grows  round  here. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       91 

Katie 

No,  nothin'  else. 

Mary 
The  chairs,  now,  Katie. 

[They  collect  three  from  the  room  and 
Mary  brings  a  fourth  from  the  alcove] 

Katie 
[Reciting  to  herself] 
"The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven  its 
wavy  bowers," — It  must  be   awful  nice  in 
th'    country — ^with    flowers    an'    trees — jes* 
like  in  th'  pictures  in  my  school  book! 

Mary 
Yes,  it  was  awful  nice  when  I  saw  it. 

Katie 
Why  can't  we  go  to  live  in  th'  country,  Mary? 

Mary 
'Cause  Father's  got  t'  be  close  t'  his  work. 

Katie 

Well,  why  can't  he  ride  in  on  th'  train  or  th'  trolley  ? 
Th'  trains  an'  trolleys  they  go  into  th'  country, 
don't  they? Don't  they,  Mary? 


92       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Yes,  dear.  But  we  can't  afford  th'  fare.  An* 
anyhow,  th'  mill  people  they've  got  t'  keep 
near  th'  -mill  whether  they  like  it  'r  not.  An' 
if  we  didn't  use  one  o'  th'  Company  houses 
th'  Company' d  bear  father  a  grudge,  an* 
they'd  make  it  harder  fer  him  in  th'  mill. 

Katie 
[After  a  pause] 
Oh,  they're  awful  mean,  ain't  they? 

Mary 
Yes,  they're  mean. 

Katie 
Folks  mus'  be  awful  happy  livin'  in  th'  country — 
mm! 

Mary 
I  s'pose  so — when  they  c'n  make  a  livin'. 

Katie 

[Putting  her  arms  about  Mary] 
Oh,  Mary !    I  wish  we  could  live  in  th'  country ! 

Mary 
[Patting  her  head] 
I  wish  everybody  could. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT       93 

Katie 

[Brightening  at  a  thought] 
When  you  get  married  maybe  youll  live  in  th' 
country.     Then  I   c'n  come  t*  see  you. 

Mary 
[Patting  the  child's  head  and  pausing; 
then  hopelessly] 
Maybe,  dear. 

Katie 

[Impulsively] 
Mary,  why  ain't  Joe  comin*  here  no  more? 

Mary 
[Withdrawing  Katie's  arms  from  about 
her] 
Hush,  hush !    Katie,  we  mustn't  talk  about  that, 
ye  know. 

Katie 
Why,  Mary? — Joe — 

Mary 
Come,  come  deary.     There's  Mother  an'  Jennie 
comin';  an'  another  plate's  missin'  from  th* 
table.     Run  an'  get  it. 


94        THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katie 

Hm — hm! 

[She  hurries  to  the  cupboard] 
[Katherine  and  Jennie  re-enter] 

Katherine 

\With  a  sigh  of  relief] 
Well  that's  done.     Mary,  will  ye  set  th'  irons  on 
th'  stove?     Some  o'  th'  things  are  near  dry 
already,  an'  I  c'n  start  in  ironin'  right  after 
dinner. 

Jennie 
[Setting   the   clothes-basket  against  the 
wall  behind  the  stove  and  following  Mary 
who  goes  to  the  door  of  the  cupboard] 
No,  let  me  do  it. 

Mary 
That's  all  right,  Jenn.     I  c'n  do  it  all  right — I 
c'n  pick  'em  up. 

Jennie 
No,  let  me. 

[EIatie  runs  out  reciting  through  the 
open  door.  Jennie  gets  the  irons  and  sets 
them  on  the  stove.  Katherine  attempts 
to  remove  the  tubs  unaided.  Mary  comes 
painfully  forward  to  help  her] 


^THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       95 

Mary 
Here,  mother.    Ye  can't  do  that  all  by  yerself ! 

Jennie 
[As  Mary  attempts  to  lift  the  tub  with 
ICatherine] 
Oh,  Mary!    Wait  a  bit.     Let  go!    Let  go!    I'm 
stronger  'n  you  any  time. 

[Mary  moves  away  and,  as  the  two 
women  lift  one  of  the  tubs  from  the  bench 
and  pass  Right  where  they  set  the  tub  near 
the  wall,  she  turns  and  looks  after  them, 
clutching  at  her  throat.  The  two  women 
return  and  carry  the  other  tub  away,  setting 
it  beside  the  first.  Mary  carries  one  of 
the  wooden  benches  half  way  over] 

Jennie 
[Taking  it  from  her] 
Fetch  th'  other  one,  Mary. 

Mary 
[Bringing    it   half-way  where  Jennie 
again  meets  her] 


Here. 


[John  Lacey  enters  laughing  loudly 
and  heartily  with  E1a.tie  clinging  to  him 
and  trying  to  speak] 


96       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

John 
So — o — o!  .  .  .  Queen  o'  th'  May  eh?  Ha  ha 
ha!  Queen  o'  th'  May,  eh  youngster?  I'll 
have  t'  tell  McCarthy  th'  joke;  he'll  appre- 
ciate it.  S'  that's  th'  stuff  they  fill  yer  fool- 
ish little  noodle  on,  eh? — Katie  Lacey,  what 
wants  t'  go  t'  work  already — an'  needs  t' — 
an'  who'll  have  t',  in  a  couple  o'  years? — Queen 
o'  th'  May !  .  .  .  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha ! — well,  well, 
well! 

Katie 
It's  such  a  lovely  piece,  Father;  it's 

John 
Well,  kiddie,  it  don't  cost  nothin'  thinkin'.  Only 
— it  does  come  high  t'  think  ye've  got  some- 
thin*  whole  worlds  better'n  ye've  really  got; 
'cause  then  ye  never  tries  to  get  nothin' 
better. 

Katie 
It's  a  nice  piece,  jes'  th'  same. 

[She  sits  on  upturned  cradle  and  removes 
one  of  her  shoes] 

John 
\With  a  chuckle] 
Yes,  a  nice  enough  "piece." 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       97 

Katie 

Oh,  that  nail ! 

[Trying  to  find  the  nail  in  her  shoe] 
**The  honeysuckle  round  the  porch  has  woven 
its  wavy  bowers " 

John 
[Hanging  his  hat  on  the  hook  and  remov- 
ing his  coat] 
Well,  Mary,  dinner  near  ready? 

Mary 
[Having  put  water  in  the  wash  basin] 
Yes,  Father;  here's  yer  water. 

John 
[Near  window  unfastening  his  cuffs  and 
turning  up  his  sleeves] 
Thank  ye,  daughter. 

[With  a  sudden  ironic  hurst  of  laughter] 
Look  who's  walkin'  down  there  across  th'  street! 
— old  Handy  Jackson's  wretch  of  a  daughter! 
[Mary  starts] 
Look  at  'er ! 

[Katie  goes  to  her  mother  with  her  shoe 
and  Katherine  with  the  aid  of  Jennie 
tries  to  fix  it,  Katie  watching  them] 
Th*  brazen-faced  hussy!    She's  jes'  as  spry  an' 


98       THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

prinked  up  as  ever.     I  wonder  if  she  brought 
her  bastard  back  with  her. 

Mary 
[In  a  quiet  husky  voice] 
Oh,  Father! 

John 
[Not  hearing  her] 
An*  a  married  man  he  was  at  that.  Why  it 
wouldn't  h'  been  s'  bad  if  .  .  .  hm!  If  I'd 
'a'  been  in  old  Jackson's  place  I'd  'a'  buried 
her  an'  th'  kid  before  I'd  'a'  let  a  bastard  into 
my  family. 

/  Mary 

Path ! 

[She   checks   the   involuntary   cry   and 
moves  to  window] 

John 
[Surprised] 
What's  th'  matter,  Mary? 

Mary 
[Passionately] 
It — it  kind  o'  hurts  t'  hear  ye  say  sech  things. 
I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T       99 

John 
[Going  to  washstand] 
Ye  wouldn't  defend  that  miserable  critter,  would 
ye?    No  child  o'  mine  I  hope  will  ever  stand 
by  that  sort  o'  thing. 

[KA.TIE  gets  her  shoe,  goes  to  couch  and 

puts  it  on] 

She  did  th'  thing  of  her  own  will  an*  now  she  has 

th'  cheek  t'  come  right  home  again  with  th' — 

[He  is  checked  hy  the  process  of  washing 

his  face] 

Mary 
Don't  say  it,  Dad;  don't  say  it  again! 

Katie 
[Standing  up  with  her  shoe  on] 
That's  better. 

Mary 
Here,  Katie,  quick;  I  see  Mr.  McCarthy  comin*, 
an'  maybe  he'll  stay  an'  have  dinner  with  us. 
Let's  set  an  extra  place. 

[They  busy  themselves  at  the  task] 

Katherine 
[Producing  a  towel  from  the  alcove] 
Here,  John,  here's  a  towel. 


100     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

Jennie 

[Whispering] 

Don't  wait  much  longer,  Mary;  fer  heaven's  sake! 

John 
Ain't  there  a  cleaner  one? 

Mary 
[In  despair  but  with  quiet  restraint] 
I  guess  I  mus'  tell  'em  soon,  but  everythin'  is  s' 
peaceful  here  now. 

John 
Ain't  there  a  cleaner  one,  I  say? 

KA.THERINE 

[Cutting  bread  at  cupboard] 
No,  John;  I  ain't  had  time  to'  do  th'  washin'  yet. 

John 
Ye  been  s'  busy  washin'  fer  th'  immaculate  high 
an'  mighty  ye  ain't  had  time  t'  get  yer  own 
.  rags  clean,  eh? 

Katherine 
John,  John! 

Jennie 
Break  it  t'  'em   easy,  Mary.      But  break  it  to 
'em.     With  all  that  talk  about  Joe  goin'  t'  be 
married 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  FOULBN/pf;;  ;  ,fi)$; 

Mary 
Yes,  yes,  Jenn ;  I  will. 

Jennie 

[Glancing  at  the  clock] 
I'll  be  late.    Henryll  be  home  now.    S'   long, 
Mary. 

Mary 
S*  long,  Jenn. 

[Jennie  goes  out.  Through  window 
McCarthy  is  seen  raising  his  hat  to  her 
as  they  pass  each  other] 

Mary 

Quick,  Katie,  another  chair! 

Katie 

[With  a  swift  glance  about  the  room] 
There  ain*t  no  more. 

Mary 
That's  so. 

Katie 
ril  sit  on  the  cradle. 

[She  runs  toward  it] 


,idi/:tEB  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
No,    no,    Katie,    don't    use    that!    Here,    this 
box  'U  do. 

[She  lifts  box  near  stove  and  goes  to  table 
Left  with  it  as  McCarthy  enters] 

John 
Hello,  McCarthy!    Glad  ye  came  in  a  moment 
before  leavin*  us. 

McCarthy 
[As  they  shake  hands] 
Couldn't   leave   without   doing   that,    very   well. 
WeVe  fought  a  good  fight  together 

John 
An*  what  a  fight  that  was,  eh?    Think  o*  those 
blood-suckers!    Two  loaves  o'  bread  more  a 
week !    That's  all  we  asked !    An'  they  nearly 
starved  us  t'  death  fer  askin'.     Damn  'em, 
\With  a  short  bitter  laugh  and  putting  on 
his  coat] 
but  we  got  it! 

Mary 
Ye'U  stay  fer  dinner,  Mr.  McCarthy? 

McCarthy 
Well— 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     103 

Mary 
Please — weVe  set  a  place  fer  ye. 

McCarthy 
Thank  ye — I  guess  I  can  manage  it. 

Mary 
It's  all  ready.  .  .  .    An'  will  ye  sit  here,  Mr.  Mc- 
Carthy?— Come  on,  Father — Katie — Mother! 
{They  take  their  places   while   Mary 
dishes  out  soup  from  the  pot  on  the  stove  and 
sets  the  plates  on  the  table] 

McCarthy 
It's  mighty  nice  of  you  to  take  me  in  for  the  meal. 
You  hardly  have  enough  for  yourselves. 

John 
There's  always  enough  fer  a  friend.    Have  some 
bread. 

McCarthy 
Thanks.    Won't  you  have  some,  Mrs.  Lacey? 

Katherine 
Thanks.  .  .  .    Here's  a  little  jam  fer  yer  bread, 
if  ye  care  fer  it.     Or,  a  little  butter,  though 
it  ain't  none  o'  th'  best. 


104     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

McCarthy 
Thank  you.    The  workers  never  have  the  best  of 
anything. 

Katherine 
I'm  thankful  t'  th'  good  Lord  fer  what  weVe  got. 
Some  folks  has  less. 

John 
[Giving  KA.THERINE  a  look] 
This  is  mighty  good  bean  soup,  McCarthy.    Try 
it. 

McCarthy 
Thanks  .  .  . 

[Embarrassed] 
Why,  I— I 

Katie 
Why,  Mr.  McCarthy  ain't  got  no  spoon ! 

Mary 

Oh 

[Rushing  to  the  cupboard  and  searching 
I'll     find    one — take    mine,     please;    I'll — why, 
there  was  one  more  spoon  in  this  drawer. 
.   .   .    Where  can   it   be.  .  .  .     It   ain't   in 
here.  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     105 

Katie 

[Jumping  up  from  the  table] 

Oh,  I  know  where  there's  one!    In  Mary's  table 

drawer.     I  saw  one  there  the  other  day. 

[As  Katie  skips  over  to  the  table  Right, 
Mary  moves  rapidly  from  the  cupboard  as  if 
to  stop  her  but  it  is  too  late.  The  child  has 
openedthedraweranddiscoveredthelittlejian' 
net  garment.  Mary  stands  still  with  panic 
as  with  a  child's  curiosity  Katie  examines  it] 

Katie 

[Displayingthegarmentandmovingtoward 
the  table,  as  Mary  attempts  to  get  to  her] 
Oh,  Mother,  look!  Mary's  making  a  doll's  dress. 
[Sensing  something  strange,  they  turn; 
momentarily  there  is  a  mystified  look  on 
the  faces  of  Katherine,  John,  and  Mc- 
Carthy; but  this  changes  to  the  shock  of 
revelation,  Katherine  rises  and  takes, 
a  step  toward  Katie,  John  throws  his 
chair  back  and  steps  Center,  as  if  wanting 
more  room  and  air,  a  suppressed  rage 
characterizing  his  entire  demeanour  as  he 
sternly  faces  Mary;  McCarthy  with- 
draws to  Left  near  stove  and  door] 


io6     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

KA.THERINE 

[Near  collapse] 
'T  ain't  no  doH's  dress.     Give  it  t'  me! 

[She  snatches  the  garment  from  Ka.tie, 
who  is  staring  from  one  to  the  other  in 
wondering   innocence,    and  faces    Mary 
who  stands  silently  waiting. 
Mary! 

[She  holds  the  garment  up  to  her  in 
silence] 

Mary 
[In  a   quiet,   shaken   voice] 
No,  't  ain't  no  doll's  dress. 

[McCarthy  motions  Katie  who  comes 
over  to  him  mystified  and  hesitating 

McCarthy 

{Whispering 

Come  on,   kiddie,   I'll  buy  you  the  best   cake 

and 

[He  draws  her  out  of  doors  with  him 
shutting  the  door  as  he  goes] 

John 
Mary,  come  here. 

Mary 
Father,  I 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     107 

JOHN^ 

Come  here,  I  say!  .  .  . 

Katherine  > 
[Collapsing  in  a  chair  by  tables  with  her 
head  buried  on  her  arms] 
Oh,  my  God!    My  God! 

[Mary  comes  agonizingly  forward  but 
gains  control  of  herself  as  she  approaches 
John  and  stands  very  still] 

John 

A  doll^s  dress!    Ha,  ha,  ha!  .  .  . 

[Snatching   the   black   shawl  from   her 
shoulders] 
A  doirs  dress?  ...  a  bastard's!  .  .  .  yes,  shiver! 
.  .  .  An'  my  own  daughter!    Makin'  it  fer 
her  own 

Mary 
Father! 

John 

Silence!  .  .  .  till  I  tell  ye  t'  talk.  Cold,  freezin', 
eh?  In  May  weather!  .  .  .  Hidin',  lyin'; 
ashamed  t'  let  honest  folks  look  at  ye  straight. 
That's  what  it  was!  An'  me  blind  as  a  bat 
— never  seein'   nothin'!      Ha,   ha,    ha,    ha! 


io8     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Put  yer  hands  down — stand  up  straight! 
— so.  .  .  .  By  God!  I  could  strike  ye 
dead !  .  .  .  My  daughter  .  .  .  the  decentest 
workin'man's  family  in  town.  Mary  Lacey 
.  .  .  John  Lacey's  daughter! 

Katherine 
Oh  God,  oh  God! 

John 
Here,  stand  up  straight,  you — !    Come 


Mary 

Oh— Father! 

John 

That  put-up  job  about  sendin'  Joe  away — Hm! 
a  nice  piece  o'  business.  He  wouldn't  have 
you  after  this,  an'  ye  wanted  t'  keep  us  hood- 
winked by  pr'tendin'  t'  send  him  away,  eh? 
Who'd  'a'  thought  there  was  s'  much  cunnin* 
in  a  quiet  puss  like  that!  Hm!  an'  Joe  he 
fell  in  with  yer  little  scheme 

Mary 
[Half-stunned] 
Oh,  Father,  I 

JOHN~ 

The  truth,  now !    Who's  th'  man  ? 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     109 

Mary 
— Ah ! — Daddy !  how  can  ye 


John 
Don't  touch  me,  or  I'll  .  .  .  Get  away,  ye  stir 
the  devil  in  me.  .  .  .  Who's  tW  man,  I  say 
.  .  .  out  with  iti  .  .  .  ashamed,  are  ye? 
.  .  .  but  it's  pretty  late  to  be  ashamed,  ain't 
it? 

Mary 
[Standing  her  straightest  and  looking 
squarely  at  him] 
No,  I  ain't  ashamed 

John 
[Striking  her  on  the  cheek] 
Hussy! 

Mary 
[Quietly  hearing  up  under  the  blow] 
— 'xcept  fer  what  yer  sayin' 

John 
Eh? 

Mary 
Ask  Joe  who's  th' — th' — man. 


no     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 
Joe.     Joe!  .  .  .  Joe!    An'  ye  want  me  t'  believe 
that,  do  ye? 

Katherine 
Oh,  dear  Lord! 

[She  takes  a  look  at  the  little  flannel  gar- 
ment which  she  still  holds  and  weeps  si- 
lently ^  again  burying  her  face  on  her  hands] 

Mary 

It's  true. 

John 

[Unbelieving 
Hm !  true  1 

Mary 
But  I'd  made  up  my  mind  I  wasn't  goin'  t'  have 
Joe  when  he  was  in  love  with  another  girl. 

John 
[With  the  doubt  dying  out] 
Another  girl,  eh? 

Mary 
I  told  ye  th*  last  time  I  sent  Joe  away.     He's  in 
love  with  Bertha  Mason,   an'  he's  goin'  t' 
marry  her  pretty  soon. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     iii 

John 
Many  hell!  He'll  marry  you  or  he'll  marry  th* 
devil,  an'  I'll  see  t'  that,  by  heaven!  .  .  . 
An'  you  jes'  bein'  a  kind  of  a  lamb  .  .  . 
hm! — Givin'  him  up  'cause  he  don't  care  fer 
ye  no  more  .  .  .  playin'  th'  angel,  an'  he 
takin'  all  yer  sacrifice,  eh? 

Mary 
Joe — Joe  don't  know,  father.     He — he  don't  know 
anythin'  's — happened, 

John 
[Looking  at  her  in  astonishment] 
Don't  know  ! 

[Mary  shakes  her  head  in  the  negative 
with  eyes  downcast] 

John 
[Picking  up  his  cap] 
Well,  we'll  see  that  he  does. 

Mary 
[In  alarm] 
Where're  ye  goin',  Father? 

John 
Where  d'ye  s'pose?    To  tell  him  the  happy  news. 


112     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Clinging  to  his  arm] 
Father,  Father !    Please,  please,  don't  go,  don't ! 

John 
[Impatiently  shaking  her  off] 
Don't?  .  .  .     Are   ye   gone    clean    crazy,    child? 
Joe  don't  know!    I'm  goin'  t'  tell  him.    Ain't 
that  clear? 

Mary 
But  I  don't  want  him  t'  know. 

John 
[Doubt  and  anger  overtaking  him] 
Don*t  want  him  t'  .  .  . 

Mary 
[Flinging  herself  on  his  breast  and  talk- 
ing feverishly] 
Daddy,   I've  been  a  good  girl  at  home.     I've 
worked  hard.      I've  given  ye  every  red  cent 
I've  earned  fer  years  an'   years.     Day  an' 
night,  night  an'  day !     I  kept  ye  out  on  strike 
when  I  was  near  dead  with  workin',  'cause 
I  wouldn't  force  ye  t'  go  back  on  th'  men. 
When  Bennie  died  I  paid  on  his  funeral  ex- 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     113 

penses.  I'm  payin'  yet,  I'll  keep  on  payin' 
though  I  c'd  die  t'  keep  enough  fer — th' 
life  that's  comin'.  I'll  work  my  hands  off 
fer  ye  at  home  here.  I'll  work  my  eyes  out 
o'  my  head,  day  an'  night,  jes'  as  I  have  been 
doin',  only  let  me  live  here  quietly  with 
ye  all,  an'  don't  tell  Joe — don't,  don't  tell 
Joe! 

John 
[Softened  but  in  a  puzzled  tone] 
Don't  tell  him?  .  .  .     But  what  on  earth  can  ye 
be  wantin' t' keepitfromhimfer?  .  .  .     He's 
father,   ain't  he?      Ain't  it  his  business  t' 
know? — t'  stand  by  ye? 

[Putting  Mary  aside  sternly] 
No.     No  Bertha  Masons  fer  him!    He'll  marry 
Mary  Lacey,  an'  do  it  mighty  quick  too. 

Mary 
No,  Father,  no! 

John 

Ye  can't  afford  t'  be  soft  in  an  affair  o'  this  kind. 
Ye  may  care  enough  fer  him  t'  let  him  go, 
but  I  won't  let  ye  be  sech  a  little  fool. 
[He  goes  to  the  door] 


114     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Throwing  herself  in  his  way\ 
'T  ain't  that,  Dad,  't  ain't  that.     I  couldn't  marry 
Joe,  Father,  I  couldn't !    I'd  die  first.    Daddy, 
oh  dear  Daddy !    Don't  go,  don't  go  I 

John 
[Looking  hard  at  her] 

Die   first  .  .  .  die! an'    it's    Joe,    is    it?    Ye 

cunnin'  little  liar ! 

Mary 
Father! 

John  ] 
1*11  go  t'  Joe  an'  find  out 

Mary 
Father  dear — listen 

John 

^an  if  it  is,  he'll  marry  ye  before  th*  one  o'clock 

whistle  blows  .  .  . 

Mary 
[Blocking  his  exit] 
No,   no,  no! — Daddy,   listen   t'  me  .  .  .  let  me 
tell  ye  why 

John 
An*  if  it  ain't 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     115 

Mary 

No,  ye  mustn't  go,  ye  mustn't  go,  Father! 

Let  me  tell  ye 

Katherine 
[Weakly  rising;  in  nervous  alarm] 
Mary,  Mary!    Be  careful,  child! 

John 
Damn  it!  .  .  .    Leggo! 

[He  hurls  Mary  aside.  With  a  despair^ 
ing  cry  she  Jails  heavily  near  the  cradle. 
John  goes  out,  Mary  drags  herself  to  the 
cradle  groaning 

Katherine 

[At  her  side] 

Mary,  Mary,  child!  .  .  .     Come,  let  me  help  ye  up. 

Mary 
[Not  hearing — lifting  her  eyes  to   the 
picture  on  the  wall  above  the  cradle] 
Oh  Christ!    Oh,  Mother  o'  Christ! 

Katherine 
Come,   child;   ye'll   feel  better  by-an'-bye.  .  .  . 
Don't,  don't!     Surely  th'  good  Lord  '11  not 
fersake  us.  .  .  .     Ye  mustn't  cross  yer  father; 
ye  know  ye  mustn't. 


Ii6     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Seeing  the  little  garment  which  Kather- 
INE  still  holdSf  snatching  it  and  covering 
it  with  kisses] 
Oh— oh— oh! 

Katherine 
[Bending  over  her] 
Come,  child;  ye  better  let  me  help  ye  brush  up  a 
bit,   an'  stop  cryin*.     Father  will  have  his 
way  an*  Joe*ll  be  here  soon. 

Mary 
[Looking  up] 
Joe — ^Joe — yes. 

[She   rises   painfully   as   Katherine 
helps  her  to  her  feet] 
Joe. 

[She  gazes  dazedly  about  the  room] 
Well,  I  ain*t  got  much  t*  take,  an*  I  c'n  easy  make 
a  bundle  o'  that. 

[She  goes  toward  alcove] 

Katherine 
[Alarmed] 
What  are  ye  goin'  t*  do,  Mary? 

Mary 
I'm  goin'  away. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     117 

Katherine 
Away?    Where  to? 

Mary 
[From  the  alcove] 
Anywhere.     So  *s  I  get  away  from  here. 

Katherine 
Mary,  ye  mus'n*t  go  ...  ye  mustn't  go  away. 

[Moving  toward  alcove] 
How'd  we  ever  get  on  without  ye!    Oh  Lord,  oh 
Lord! 

Mary 
Don't  worry  about  that.     If  I  find  work,  an*  I 
hope  I  will  somewhere — I'll  send  ye  a  little 
help  now  an'  then. 

Katherine 
An'  if  ye  don't  find  work,  ye'll  go  all  t'  pieces  .  .  . 
an'  no  roof  t'  cover  ye,   an'  this — this  thing 
comin'  along!  ...  oh  Mary. 

Mary 
[Coming  from  the  alcove  with  a  few  hits 
of  clothing  and  an  old  suitcase] 
If  I  don't  get  work  jes'  imagine  I'm  gone  where 
little  Bennie  went. 

[She  puts  the  suitcase  on  a  chair,  and 
moves  toward  the  cupboard] 


Ii8     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katherine 
There'll  be  no  one  t*  look  after  ye. 

Mary 
1*11  look  after  myself.    At  any  rate,  I'll  take  m' 
chances.     It'll  be  better  than  bein'  looked 
after  by  Father  now. 

[She  brings  a  piece  of  cord  from  the 
cupboard  and  begins  to  untangle  it] 
Sit  down,  mother,  ye're  a  bit  shaky. 

[She   brings  a   chair  for   Katherine 

near  Center] 

There!    Ye're   a  bit  faint.     Ye  mus'n't  let  this 

worry  ye,  mother.     It's  hard  fer  ye  t'  have 

me  go,  I  know;  but  it's  harder  fer  me  t'  stay 

...  an'  marry  Joe. 

Katherine 

^[Faintly] 
Th'  father  o'  yer  child,  Mary.     D'ye  want  t'  jes'- 
stay  aroun'  unmarried  an'  have  decent  folks 
point  at  us  as  havin'  a — a — that  kind  of  a 
child  in  the  family?    We'd  die  with  shame! 
[A  long  pause.    Mary  continues  un- 
tangling the  cord] 
Why  shouldn't  ye  marry  him? — an'  him  willin' 
t'  marry  ye ! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     119 

Mary 
[Coming  up  close  to  Katherine] 

I — I  want  t'  tell  ye  some  things,  Mother.  Ye 
never  give  me  much  chance  t'  talk  intimate 
with  ye,  an*  ye  never  talked  intimate  with 
me,  but  I  picked  things  up,  as  most  girls  I 
know  pick  'em  up — jes'  any  old  how — in 
ways  that  hurt  bad,  sometimes.  But,  it 
don't  matter  now.  I'm  goin'  away,  so  I'll 
talk  plain  t'  ye;  for  I've  learned  t'  see  things 
plain.  I'm  payin'  fer  seein'.  But  I  s'pose 
that's  how  we  all  do — we  pay. 

Before  I  met  Joe,  when  I  was  fifteen,  Timmy  Kel- 
ler— ye  remember  Timmy? — ye  used  t'  think 
we  was  jes'  boy  an'  girl  chums,  but  ye  didn't 
understand — we  was — in  love.  Anyhow,  I 
thought  I  was  in  love  with  Timmy. 
[The  mother  stares  at  her  with  incredulity] 

Wasn't  you  never  in  love  when  you  was  fifteen? 

Maybe    ye    f ergot    it.  .  .  .     We we 

used  t'  go  back  in  th'  alley  an' an'  he 

used  t'  kiss  me  so  I'd  pretty  near  faint.     Then 

then  Joe  came  along,   an'   I  got  crazy 

mad  fer  Joe;  an'  when  Timmy'd  come  around 
before  he  knew  about  Joe,  I  hated  t'  have 
him,  but  I'd  smile  pleasant  an'  be  nice  t'  him 


I20     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

'cause  I  hated  t'  tell  him  I  didn't  care  n' 
more. 

One  night,  as  I  was  comin*  out  o*  Sallie  Jamison's 
house,  Timmy  caught  me  in  th'  dark  hall, 
an'  kissed  me.  I  scratched  his  face,  an' 
kicked  him  an'  bit  his  arm,  fer  I  was  afraid 
t'  scream  an'  bring  down  Sallie,  but  he  was 
stronger  an'  he  jes'  held  me,  an'  kissed  me 
again — on  th'  mouth!  .  .  .  oh-o-o-h! 

[She  shudders  and  repulses  the  hoy  in 
imagination] 

Over  an'  over  again  he  kissed  me  .  .  .  till  I  give 
him  jes'  one  good  bite  that  made  him  howl,  an' 
he  let  go  o'  me.     0-o-oh! 

[Shuddering  again] 

I  ain't  got  no  way  o'  telling  ye  how  I  felt.  I  could 
'a'  killed  him  on  th'  spot  ...  I  could  'a' 
killed  myself.  I  was  through  carin'  fer 
Timmy.  I  was  crazy — mad  fer  Joe  then. 
After  that  time  in  th'  hall,  every  time  I  used 
t'  meet  Tim  on  th'  street  I'd  jes'  feel  as  if  I 
could  die  sooner  'n  pass  him  s'  close! 

Then — then — long  after,  after  I  was  engaged   a 

long  time  t'  Joe,  an',  an' — after 

[She  hangs  her  head] 
th — this  happened,  Joe  meets  Bertha  Mason 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     121 

an'  stops  carin*  fer  me — jes'  goes  daffy 
over  her,  as  I  went  daffy  over  him!  He 
don't  care  fer  me  no  more  now,  than  I  cared 
fer  Timmy  Keller  after  I  met  hiniy 

[With  a  lift  of  the  head] 
an*  d'ye  suppose  I  could  be  a  Timmy  Keller 
t*  Joe? — D'ye  suppose  I  could  marry  him, 
an'  every  time  he'd  kiss  me  to  know  he's 
thinkin'  o'  Bertha  an'  feeHn'  like  I  felt  when 
Timmy  kissed  me?  An'  he'd  maybe  come 
home  nights  an'  smile  pleasant  t'  me,  after 
he'd  been  seein'  Bertha  Mason!  W'y,  I'd 
go  out  o'  my  head  with  th'  thought ! 

[Katherine    shifts    uncomfortably    in 
her  chair  and  covers  her  face  with  her  apron] 
Think  o'  livin'  with  a  man — like  that! 

Katherine 
[Through  her  apron] 
Fer  th' — child's  sake,  ye'd  get  used  t'  it. 

Mary 

Fer  th'  child's  sake!  Yes,  it's  partly  fer  th* 
child's  sake  that  I  mus'n't  get  used  t'  it.  It's 
partly  fer  th'  child's  sake  I  ain't  goin'  t'  live 
with  no  man  that's  th' — th'  father  o'    th' 


122     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

child    an'    don't    care    fer    th'    mother    no 
more!  .  .  . 

[Significantly,  and  very  close  to  Ka.the- 

rine] 
Ye  think  it's  good  fer  th'  children  t'  live  with 
fathers    an'    mothers    like    that.     Ye    don't 
know  how  th'   children  suffers  when  there 
ain't  no  love  at  home. 

[Katherine    hends    her    head    lower, 

Mary  is  about  to  put  her  hands  on  her 

head  hut  checks  herself] 
Get  used  t'  it! — used  t'  it!  An'  look  at  Mrs. 
Parker.  She  got  used  t'  it.  Folks  never 
get  tired  tellin'  how  she  made  Parker  marry 
her  when — when — what's  happenin'  t'  me 
happened  t'  her.  An'  what  sort  of  a  dog's 
life  has  she  been  livin'  all  these  years? — 
with  a  lot  o'  children  now,  an'  Parker  a  drunk- 
en sot,  an'  them  two  fightin'  around  all  th* 
time,  an*  th'  children  sick  an'  miserable? 

Katherine  * 
It's  the  Lord's  will,  Mary. 

Mary 
That's  what  th'  minister  tells  ye.     Ye  wouldn't 
think  so  if  ye  did  yer  thinkin'  fer  yerself. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     123 

It's  mostly  bein'  poor;  an'  some,  bein'  too 
respectable  t'  be  honest  with  yerself.  We 
can't  help  bein'  poor;  anyhow  not  yet,  but 
we  can  help  bein'  so  respectable  that 
we  can't  be  honest  with  ourselves;  an* 
that's  what  Mrs.  Parker  might  'a'  helped 
an'  that's  what  I'm  tryin'  t'  help.  I 
heard  folks  tellin'  many  times  how  he 
runs  around  with  other  women!  An'  she 
havin'  children  with  him ! — like  that ! 
O-o-o-h! 

[With  deep  revulsion] 
Get  used  t'  it !    I'd  rather  do  like  Handy  Jackson's 
girl,  if  I  have  t'. 

Katherine 
[Horrified\ 
Mary!    God  fergive  ye  fer  th'  thought. 

Mary 
I  have  a  notion  He'd  fergive  me  sooner  than  if  I 
went  an'  did  like  Mrs.  Parker. 

Katherine 
Th*  Lord  fergive  ye,  Mary!    An'  t'  think  o*  yer 
leavin'  yer  child  fatherless ! 


124     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

Mary 
Well,  I'd  rather  have  a  child  folks  calls — th* 
names  they  do,  than  live  with  Joe  th'  way- 
Mrs.  Parker  does  with  her  husband,  an'  have 
a  lot  o'  children  that  folks  calls — legitimate 
but  that  ain't  really 

Katherine 

Mary ! 

Mary 
That's  really  less  legitimate  than  the  Jackson 
girl's  poor  little  baby. 

Katherine 
[In  a  weeping  tone] 
Oh — oh !    Who'd  'a'  thought  my  own  child  would 
have  sech  a  wayward  soul ! 

Mary 
If  my  soul's  wayward,  Mother,  it's  got  so  right 
here. 

Katherine 
[Looking  up] 
Right  here? 

Mary 
Yes.     Though  ye  ain't  never  taught  me  nothin' 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T      125 

by  tellin*  me  things,  ye  taught  me  a  lot  by 
— sech  things  as  I  been  talkin'  about. 

[Katherine  puts  her  head  on  the  table 
and  moans] 
Children  see  more  'n  parents  think  they  see.    An' 
they  think — an'  suffer !  in  lots  o'  ways. 

Katherine 
[Wiping   her   eyes   meekly] 
We  're  all  th'  better  fer  sufferin',  child. 
Mary 
[Getting  a  few  last  things  together] 
That's  another  thing  th'  minister  tells  ye,  an'  ye 
swallows  it  whole.     Sometimes,  I  suppose,  we 
are   better  fer  sufferin',   but  sometimes  we 
ain't;  an'  th'  sufferin'  that  makes  little  child- 
ren bitter  is  one  o'  th'  kinds  we  ain't  better  fer. 
Katherine 
[Rising] 
Here,  don't  ye  want  th'  little  black  shawl  too? 

Mary 
Thank  ye,  Mother,  ye  better  keep  it  at  home  fer 
Katie. 

Katherine 
Yer  wrong  in  leavin'  home,  Mary.     Ye'U  suffer 
a  lot  an'  ye  won't  be  any  better  fer  it. 


126     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Oh,  Mother!    Can't  ye  understand  yet  that  I 
can't  stay?    It  don't  seem  no  use  telHn'  ye 
things. 

[  There  is  a  knock  at  the  door] 

ICatherine 
Come  in ! 

[McCarthy  opens  the  door  and  takes 
in  the  situation] 
Oh,  Mr.  McCarthy! 

McCarthy 

Why,  Miss  Mary,  I 

[Mary  stands  slightly  embarrassed  be- 
fore McCarthy,  but  ready  to  leave] 

Katherine 
She's  leavin'  home,  Mr.  McCarthy.     Couldn't  ye 
show  her  she's  wrong?    She  has   a  lot  o' 
respect  fer  ye.     If  ye'd  only  tell  her. 

McCarthy 
Leaving  home? 

Mary 
They  think  they  c'n  make  me  marry  Joe  when  he 
don't  want  t'  marry  me  an'  when  I  won't 
have  him  like  that. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     127 

Katherine 
But,  Mr.  McCarthy,  Joe's  th' 


McCarthy 
I  understand  what's  happened,  Mrs.  Lacey.  But 
if  Mary's  going  to  be  the  mother,  and  she 
chooses  to  assume  the  responsibihty  in  the 
matter  of  the  child,  and  Joe  doesn't  care  for  her 
any  longer — is  in  fact,  in  love  with  another, 
and  Mary  has  enough  self-respect  to  refuse 
to  marry  him  under  the  circumstances,  it 
seems  to  me  no  one  has  the  right  to  interfere. 

Katherine 

But  her  own  father 

McCarthy 
Fathers  are  not  always  right  in  such  matters,  Mrs. 
Lacey. 

Mary 
[Her  hat  and  coat  on] 
Good-bye,  mother. 

[She  embraces  Katherine  sadly  rather 
than  warmly] 
Ye  mus'n't  worry  too  much,  an'  I'll  send  ye  what 
I  can.     Say  good-bye  t'  everybody  fer  me. 
ICatherine 
Oh  Mary,  child! 


128     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Good-bye,    Mr.    McCarthy.     Ye've   been    awful 
good  t'  me. 

McCarthy 
[Looking  at  his  watch] 
I'm  going,  too,  Miss  Mary.     My  train  goes  in  a 
few  minutes  and  the  station  is  close  by.     My 
wife  will  be  glad  to  take  you  in  for  a  while  if 
you'll  come  along. 

Mary 

Thank  ye  so  much !  It's  awful,  awful  good  of  ye, 
but  I  can't.  Father'll  be  back  in  a  few  min- 
utes an' — I  don't  think  Joe'll  tell — the  truth. 

McCarthy 

You  don't  mean  he'd  deny! 

Mary 
He'll  be  s'  scared!    An'  he  not  carin'  fer  me  an' 
all  that,  he— he'll  jes'  .  .  .     Then  father'd 
think 

McCarthy 

What? 

[She   pauses   a   moment   in   confusion 
then  hurries  out  with  face  averted] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     129 

Katherine 
Oh  God  .  .  .  Mary! 

McCarthy 
Good  heavens!    I  can't  let  her  go  off  like  that. 
Where's  Lacey? 

Katherine 
Gone  t*  fetch  Joe. 

McCarthy 

What  for? 

Katherine 
T'  tell  him  what's  happened.  i 

McCarthy 
Do  you  mean  to  say  he  didn't  know? 

Katherine 

She  didn't  tell  him. 

McCarthy 
And  she  went 

Katherine 
Because  he  was  goin'  t'  bring  Joe  back  with  him 
t'  marry  them  right  off. 

McCarthy 
How  could  she  help  going ! 


130     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Katherine 
Oh,  you  go  too,  Mr.  McCarthy.     Help  her,  an* 
God '11  help  ye  sure. 

McCarthy 
I'll  do  what  I  can.     Never  mind  the  rest. 
[He  rushes  out] 

Katherine 
Oh  God  bless  ye,  God  bless  ve ! 

[She  rushes   to   the   window   Right,  as 
McCarthy  passes.    She  opens  it.     There 
is  the  sound  of  a  train  pulling  into  a 
station] 
Oh,  hurry — ^hurry,  for  God's  sake ! 

[She  watches  excitedly,  leaning  far  out 
of  the  window] 
Now,    now  he'll   soon   catch  up   with  her.  .  .  . 
There !    He's  touchin'  her  arm.  .  .  .  They're 
goin'  on  t'gether! 

[She  watches  long  at  the  window  in 
growing  excitement] 
Now  .  .  .  now!    He's    helpin'    her    on    t'    the 
train.  .  .  .     Now  he's    on    too  ...  oh,    if 

John  should  see  them  before 

[A  train  whistle  blows] 
Thank  God!     They're  gone  now — they're  gone! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T      131 

[Shutting  down  the  window  in  haste] 
An*  here's  John  comin'  back. 

[She  hurries  draggingly  to  the  sofa,  sink- 
ing limply  into  it  as  John  enters] 

John 
[Looking  searchingly  about  the  room, 
going  to  alcove,  returning  and  gazing  at 
Katherine] 
Where  is  she,  Katherine? 

Katherine 
Gone. 

John 
Gone? 

Katherine 
She  wouldn't  stay. 

John 
Gone!  .  .  .  where  to? 

Katherine 
I  don't  know. 

John 
Did  she  go  alone? 

Katherine 
Ye  see,  Mr.  McCarthy 


132     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 
Ha!    So  .  .  .  Mr.  McCarthy! 


Katherine 

She  was  goin'  before  he  came,  an'  he  said  his  wife 
would  look  after  her 

John 
His  wife!  Ha,  ha,  ha!  His  wife!  Joe  denies  it,  Kate. 
Joe  ain't  th'  man.     His  wife !    Th'  damn  fakir ! 
[  The  mill  whistle  blows] 

Katherine 
[Rising  hastily  and  approaching  John 
with  timidity] 
John  ye  ain't  had  none  o'  yer  dinner  yet,  an'  th' 
whistle  blowin'. 

John 
Dinner!  .  .  .    Which  way 'd  they  go? 

Katherine 

They  got  the  last  train.  Ye  heard  it  maybe,  as 

ye  came  down  th'  street  .  .  .  they  were  on 

that.  .  .  .     John,  take  a  little  soup  before  ye 

go.  .  .  .     Don't  stare  like  that,  John!  .  .  . 

There's  the  second  whistle  now;  ye'U  be  late. 

[She  makes  pretence  of  examining  the 

irons  on  the  stove] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     133 

John 
[Rousing  himselj] 
Damn  th'  whistle!    Damn  everythinM — I'm  late 
anyhow. 

[A  long  pause] 
[John  glances  at  the  clock  on  the  shelf 
and  hurries  out.  Katherine  goes  to  the 
window,  looks  out  for  a  few  moments,  re- 
turns to  the  stove,  puts  on  some  coal,  brings 
out  her  ironing-board,  sets  it  in  place,  and 
goes  out.  She  is  seen  a  moment  later,  in 
the  yard,  a  half-broken  figure,  taking  the 
clothes  from  the  line] 

curtain 


ACT  III 

Time:  An  afternoon  in  March,  eight  years  later. 

Scene:  Same  as  Acts  I  and  II,  The  stove,  some 
of  the  chairs  and  table  are  different;  the 
medicine  shelf  is  hare  except  for  an  old  alarm 
clock;  the  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  Child, 
worn  at  the  corners,  still  adorns  the  original 
bit  of  wall  space.  The  old  bed  stands  where 
it  stood,  but  the  alcove  curtains  are  now  a 
faded  yellow.  The  old  sofa  is  covered  with 
an  ample  piece  of  faded  cretonne.  The 
distant  cheering  of  a  crowd  is  heard  before 
the  rise  of  the  curtain. 

Discovered:  As  the  curtain  rises  John  Lacey, 
on  crutches  and  his  left  foot  bandaged,  at 
window  leaning  far  out  and  craning  his 
neck  to  see.  The  cheering  swells  and  dies 
down.  For  a  time  he  watches,  then  with- 
draws from  the  window,  pulling  it  shut, 
hobbles  painfully  over  to  the  sofa,  snatches 
134 


^         THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     135 

up  his  cap,  hobbles  to  the  door,  stops;  con- 
templates his  bandaged  foot,  with  a  rebellious 
murmur,  throws  his  cap  back  on  the  sofa, 
returns  to  the  window,  opens  it,  leans  far  out, 
and  looks  down  street  as  the  cheering  is  renewed. 

John 
[Catching  sight  of  the  Doctor  across  the 
street] 
Mornin',  Doctor  I 

Doctor 
[Crossing   over   to    window] 
Good  morning,  Mr.  Lacey;  how's  the  strike  getting 
on? 

John 
The    strike!     Look   there!     Have   ye   ever   seen 
anythin'  Hke  it ! 

Doctor 

Too  bad  you  can't  go  out  too. 

John 
[With  a  restrained  impatience] 
Gad!     Here's  th'  great  ''Mother"  addressin'  th' 
boys,  an'  this  old  foot  keeps  me  in! 

[There  is  loud  cheering,  shouting,  whist- 
ling] 


136  _  THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Doctor 
You  must  not  get  into  a  crowd,  Mr.  Lacey. 

John 
And  such  a  crowd!  I  never  saw  the  like  in  this 
town  before!  Look  there,  Doctor,  isn't  that 
a  wild  one! — "Mother"  rousin'  'em.  .  .  . 
Now  she's  gettin'  off  the  platform.  .  .  .  No, 
they  won't  let  her. 

Doctor 
Looks  as  if  the  whole  town's  been  let  loose. 

John 

Look  at  the  way  they're  throwin'  their  hats  in  the 

air — an'   the  women — wavin'   their   shawls! 

An'  the  little  shavers  all  excited ! — It  must  be 

a  wonderful  speech  t'  make  'em  act  like  that. 

[Great  cheering] 

Doctor 
I  don't  know  what  the  world's  coming  to  with  so 
many  strikes. 

John 
[Still  looking  out  and  hardly  hearing] 
Banners !  —  transparencies !  —  flags !  — ■  an'    what's 
that  stuck  up  on  th'  stick  the  little  feller's 
carryin'  ? — Looks  to  me  like  a  loaf  o'  bread. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T      137 

Doctor 

That's  so — it  must  be.     What  do  you  suppose  he'd 
do  that  for? 

John 

Wants  more  of  it,  I  guess. 

Doctor 
Strikes  are  terrible  things,  Mr.  Lacey. 

John 
They  are,  Doctor.     But  we  don't  make  'em.    We 
kind  o'  get  trod  on,  an'  we  turn  like  th'  worm. 

Doctor 

And    that    woman    there — whom    you    all    call 
** Mother"  was  in  jail  for  inciting  to  riot. 

John 
Yes,  Doctor,  but  ye  know,  t'  us  workers  it  means 
a  different  thing.     It  means  she  got  th'  work- 
ers t'  stick,  an'  some  folks  calls  that  riot. 

Doctor 
She  was  certainly  courageous,  even  if  mistaken. 
She  looks  like  a  Joan  of  Arc,  standing  up 
there  on  that  high  platform. 

John 
But  it  don't  say  Joan  ever  wore  a  red  sweater, 
does  it  ? 


138     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Doctor 

No,  I  guess  not 

John 
I  wish  it  wasn't  s'  far.     C'n  ye   make   her  out, 
Doctor;  c'n  ye  hear  anythin'  at  all? 

Doctor 
No,  it's  just  a  little  too  far.     But  I'll  go  and  get 
a  look  at  your  famous  strike  leader — your 
"Mother" — before  that  adoring  crowd  swal- 
lows her. 

[With  a  casual  wave  of  his  hand  he  goes 
off] 

John 
[Musing  for  a  moment  out  of  window, 
then  as  a  hurst  of  loud  cheering  is  heard\ 
Hey,  Doctor!  ye're  late!    She's  off  th'  platform 
now  .  .  . 

[  To   himself] 
Goodness,  what  a  mob  of  'em  .  .  .  they're  chewin' 
her  up  alive  .  .  .  now  .  .  .  where  is  she?  .  .  . 
[The  cheering  is  renewed;  rising  above 
it,  can  he  heard  the  strains  of  the  ''Mar- 
seillaise'' played  hy  a  hand.      Moving  a 
little  he  brushes  his  foot  against  a  chair 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     139 

and  groans.    He  sets  himself,  half  lean- 
ing against  the  window,  listening  to  the 
music  hut  soon  begins  to  heat  time  with  his 
crutch,  loudly  or  softly,  as  the  music  swells 
or  recedes,  then  joins  in  a  low  quavering 
voice] 
''The   people   shall   be   free!  .  .  .  march   on! — 
march   on! — all  hearts  resolved"  .  .  .     But 
...  no,  things  go  on — as — as  if  there  ain't 
never  goin'  t'  be — nothin'  else.  .  .  . 

[With  a  deep  sigh  he  sinks  cautiously 
into  a  chair,  A  few  isolated  shouts,  then 
all  is  still.  For  several  moments  he  sits 
silently  musing] 

[Jennie  flits  hy  window] 

Jennie 
[Entering  with  a  hurst] 
Daddy!  .  .  .  Daddy!  ... 

John 
An*    I    missed    th'    speech,    an'     missed    seein' 
'^Mother." 

Jennie 

[Still  hreathless  with  excitement] 
Oh,  Daddy!  .  .  . 


140     THE  WOMAN~WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 
[Looking  down  on  his  foot] 
Damn  it!  .  .  .  I  was  goin'  anyway,  but 


Jennie 
An*  it  was  a  wonderful  speech, — but — Daddy  dear, 
this  woman  .  .  .  that  everybody's  lovin'  an' 
talkin'  about — that  all  th'  papers're  full  of 
.  .  .  this  woman  that  went  t'  prison  with  her 
little  one  in  her  arms  sooner  than  quit 
th'  fight  in  th'  Pittsburg  strike  .  .  .  this 
"Mother  Mary'*  .  .  .  Daddy!  What  Mary 
d'ye  think  she  is ! 

[Staring  blankly  at  Jennie,  he  struggles 
painfully  to  his  feet,  and  as  the  look  of 
suspicion  creeps  into  his  face,  he  utters  a 
cry  resembling  more  the  cry  of  a  dumb 
brute  than  that  of  a  human;  beginning  in  a 
low  intonation  and  ending  in  an  accen- 
tuated interrogation] 

John 
Huh? 

Jennie 
[Flinging  her  shawl  off] 
Yes,  Father;  it's  she! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     141 

John 
[Sinking  into  his  chair  again  and  passing 
his  hand  slowly  over  his  brow] 

''Mother"— ** Mother  Mary!"    My  Httle  girl? 

[Stupefied] 
Where  is  she  now? 

Jennie 

Now! — Right  in  the  crowd,  Dad,  an*  everybody 
jes*  strugglin*  t*  shake  hands  with  her.  Joe's 
in  the  crowd.  Ye  should  have  seen  how 
stunned  he  looked  when  he  saw  her!  I  left 
him  there,  him  promisin'  t'  bring  her  here 
when  th*  crowd  let  up  on  her,  while  I  hurried 
back  t*  tell  ye. 

John 
God!  ...     My   little   lost   girl.  .  .  .     '* Mother 
Mary,"  Mary  Lacey  .  .  .  my  little  girl  .  .  . 
Mother! 

Jennie 
Think  of  it,  Dad ;  think  of  it ! 

John 
[Doubt  overtaking  him] 
Are  ye  sure  it's  her,  Jenn  ? 


142     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Jennie 
Am  I  sure  ye're  you,  dad?  Wouldn't  I  know  my 
own  sister  when  I  see  her?  There  ain't  no 
mistake.  It's  her  as  big  as  life.  ...  A  lot 
older  'n  nineteen;  but  she's  got  lots  more  to 
her.  Ye  should  'a'  heard  her  talk,  Dad; 
ye'd  'a'  understood  how  she'd  'a'  had  th' 
grit  t'  go  her  own  way,  an'  never  tell  none  o' 
us  where  she  is  an'  yet  have  th'  goodness 
to  send  a  little  help  home  whenever  she 
could.  An'  her  goin'  t'  prison,  an'  takin' 
her  child  with  her  ...  ye  could  imderstan' 
that,  too. 

John 
[Turning  from  the  window] 
An*  me  drivin'  her  out  o'  her  own  home.  .  .  . 
Me!  her  father.  ...     If  Joe  'd  only  owned 
up  t'  th'  child!— He  had  t'  wait  till  Bertha 
died. 

[A  murmur  of  the  crowd  is  heard] 

Jennie 

[Talking  rapidly] 
Well,  that's  over  an'  past  now.     Don't  let's  regret 
what's  done  an'  can't  be  helped.     She's  here. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     143 

an*  she's  comin*  home  an' — an'  Joe's  goin' 
t'  bring  her.  Be  good  t'  her,  Dad;  be  good  t* 
her  now  because  she's  earned  it;  if  fer  no 
other  reason. 

[  The  murmur  grows  more  distinct] 

John 
[Rousing  himself] 
If  she'd  only  let  me! — S'  Joe's  bringing  her?  .  .  . 
I'm  glad  o'  that. 

[Distinct  cheering] 

Jennie 
[Who  has  excitedly  been  putting  a  few 
womanly  touches  to  the    things    in    the 
room] 
An*  Father, 

[going  to  him] 
do  give  Joe  a  chance  with  Mary.  He'll  want  it. 
I'm  goin'  out  soon  t'  join  Henry  in  Union 
Hall;  p'raps  you  can  take  yer  little  hobble 
down  the  street  when  the  crowds  ain't  around, 
an'  there's  no  danger  t'  yer  foot. 

John 
Sure,  sure,  daughter. 


144     THE  WOMAN  WHO  W0ULDNT3 

Jennie 
Henry  an*  I  are  on  th'  Strike-committee,  or  I*d 
stay  an'  walk  with  ye. 

John 
No  need,  daughter.    I  manage  it  most  o*  th*  time 
myself. 

[A  child's  voice  from  street] 

Child 
Is  this  gran*pa*s  house? 

QoHN  and  Jennie  turn  simultaneously 
toward  the  window] 

John 
[Deeply  moved] 
A  gran'child! 

Jennie 
Her  little  one ! 

[She  looks  down  at  her  left  hand,  finger- 
ing her  wedding  ring] 
But,  oh !     Mary '11  get  sech  a  shock  t*  see  ye  like  this. 
[She  disappears  in  alcove  and  returns 
quickly  with  a  dark  grey  blanket  which  she 
throws  over  John's  lap  covering  his  feet 
too  and  concealing  the  crutches  near  him] 
There  .  .  . 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     145 

John 
[As  Mary,  Joe,  and  The  Child  pass 
the  window] 
Mary,  my  little  girl ! 

Jennie 

[Snatching  up  her  shawl] 
Poor  or  dad! 

[She  goes  quickly  to  the  door,  opening  it 
on  the  three  outside] 
Dear  Mary! 

[She  gives  Mary  a  warm  kiss  and  hastily 
pats  the  child  on  the  head.  As  Mary 
enters  with  The  Child  she  beckons  to  Joe 
who  is  immediately  behind  Mary.  Joe 
follows  Jennie  out  and  she  closes  the  door 
after  them.  They  are  seen  to  pass  the 
window  a  few  moments  later] 

[Mary,  a  little  to  Left  of  door,  stands 
silently  facing  John.  The  Child  looks 
questioningly  from  her  mother  to  John. 
John  raises  his  head  and  looks  dumbly 
at  Mary] 

The  Child 
Is  this  gran'pa,  mother? 


146     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[With   uneven   voice] 
Yes,  dear;  run  along! 

The  Child 
[Rushing  to  John  who  leans  forward 
and  encircles  her  in  his  arm] 
Gran'pa! 

John 
[Sohhing\ 
My  Mary's  little  one! 

Mary 
[Coming  falteringly  toward  him] 
You — ^youYe  glad  to  see  us? 

John 
[Lifting  his  face  to  her] 
Oh,  my  little  girl! 

Mary 
[Coming  swiftly,  with  half-cry,  half-groan] 
Oh,  Daddy,  dear  Daddy! 

John 

My  little  lost  lamb! 

The  Child 
Kiss  me  too,  gran'pa ! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     147 

John 
[With  a  lift  of  the  voice] 
Sure  youngster. 

[Kissing  her  warmly  several  times] 
What's  yer  name? 

The  Child 
Joey — ^Josephine  Lacey. 

John 
Joey! 

[He  looks  at  Mary  with  a  hopeful  smile; 
but  Mary  looks  away] 

The  Child 

Hm-hm! 

[Releasing   herself  and  running  to   a 

chair] 

Sit  down  here,  gran'pa. 

John 

Orderin'  me  'round  already,  eh? 

[He  smiles  to  Mary  and  attempts  to 
rise] 
If  ye'll  get  my  sticks,  child 

Mary 
Oh,  dear  Father!  .  .  .    Accident  in  the  mill?    . 


148     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

John 
Yes. 

Mary 
[Getting  his  crutches  and  helping  him  up] 
Bad? 

John 
Not  very,  fortunately. 

[They  go  to  chair] 

Mary 
Thank  God  I 

[Catching  herself] 
No,  no,  Daddy;  I  don't  mean  to  say  that.     God 
hasn't  anything  to  do  with  accidents  in  the 
mills.     Greedy  men  are  to  blame,  not  God. 

John 
Ye're  right,   child;   ye're  right.     It's  jes'   habit 
makes  ye  blame  God. 

[The  Child  gets  on  his  knee  and  looks 
at  him  wonderingly.    He  kisses  her] 
An'    you're— "Mother"— "Mother    Mary"— the 
poor  little  lamb  I  drove  out  o'  th'  fold? 

Mary 
[Deeply  touched] 
No,  Daddy;  I'm  still  little  Mary;  John  Lacey's 
girl;  and  you're  still  my  dad. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     149 

[Stroking  his  head] 
But  how  grey  you  are,  Daddy  dear;  and  so  much 
older  I 

[Looking  wistfully  about  the  room] 
And  the  house  has  changed  so  little. 

John 
[Resignedly] 
We  don't  grow  younger  in  th'  mills,  daughter. 

Mary 

I  don't  see  the  tubs  or  the  ironing-board.  Where's 
mother? 

John 
Gone. 

Mary 
Gone? 

John 

She  died  five  years  ago. 

Mary 
[Taking  the  shock  with  restraint] 
Poor  mother! 

John 

Th'  heart  gave  out.  She  was  bendin'  over  th' 
washing — like  she  Was  anxious  to  take  another 
piece  from  th'  tub.     That's  how  we  found  her. 


150     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT 

Mary 
[Looking  wistfully  about  the  room] 
Poor    mother!  .  .  .  and   now   the   mill   owner's 
wife  has  some  one  else  to  wash  for  her.  .  .  . 
And  Nellie  does  your  housekeeping,  I  suppose. 

John 
Nellie  couldn't  find  nothin'  t'  do  here,  so  she  went 
t'  work  in  Pittsburg. 

Mary 
Pittsburg? — She  helps  you  a  little? 

John 
She  scarcely  earns  enough  fer  herself. 

Mary 
And  Katie? 

IJOHN 

L-left  home  a  year  ago. 

Mary 
Left  home? — How? 

John 

Oh,  a  man ! — She  wanted  t'  marry  him  an*  he  was 
a  good-fer-nothin'.  I  wouldn't  stand  fer  it 
so — she  went  away. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     151 

Mary 

{Contemplating  him  sadly] 
Poor  dad!  .  .  .  you  might  have  taken  an  interest 
in  the  heart  of  the  girl 

John 
Yes,  child;  the  lesson's  come  home  t'  me.  .  .  . 
There's  Jennie  an'  Henry  left.  They  live 
here  with  me,  an'  Jennie  manages  t'  keep 
things  goin'  here  in  early  momin'  an'  after 
work. 

Mary 

After  work? 

John 
Jennie's  been  in  th'  mills  now  fer  about  four  years. 
Henry  was  makin'  s'  little,  she  went  t'  work, 
too — t'  make  it  easier  at  home.  But  work's 
been  unsteady  in  th'  mills,  wages  poor,  an' 
th'  cost  o'  livin'  high, — an'  they  find  it  no 
easier  now  than  when  Henry  was  workin' 
alone.  .  .  .  It's  not  quite  s'  lonely,  livin'  all 
t'gether, — like  this. 

Mary 
{Quite  close  to  John] 
Father!  you — you  talk  so — so 


152     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T  ^ 

[With  deep  pain  in  her  voice] 
so  indifferently  about  these  things!    Don*t  you 
feel  them  as — as — deeply  as  you  used  to? — 
as  you  did  before — I  went  away? 

,    [John  gives  a  hopeless  shrug  of    the 
shoulders  and  remains  silent] 
Daddy! 

\With  pain  and  rebellion] 
You  used  to — to — revolt  so  against  this  miserable 
slavery.  The — the  fire  in  you — years  ago, 
it  helped  me  all  these  years.  .  .  .  You  don't 
seem  to  care  any  more!  Daddy!  You're 
so — changed  ! 

John 
[Rising  slowly  and  painfully  with  The 
Child — who  has  fallen  asleep — gathered 
up  in  his  left  arm.     Supporting  himself 
on  a  crutch  with  the  other] 
My — spirit's  near  broken,  little  Mary — **  Mother 
Mary."     Ye  c'n  stir  th'  young  fellers;  but 
few  as  old  an'  done-for  as  yer  daddy  c'n  stay 
stirred — ^fer  long. 

Mary 
[Carefully  taking  the  child  from  him] 
Oh,  father! 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     153 

John 
We're   excited — while   a   strike's   on;   yes.     But 
after — we  jes'  jog  along  like  horses  in  harness. 

Mary 
[Desperately  and  in  a  subdued  voice] 
That's  what  the  system  does  to  some  of  us! 

[With  fire] 
But  it  can't  go  on  forever. 

[Going  to  the  alcove] 

Some  day — there'll  be  an  end! — must  be  an  end! 

[She  disappears  into  the  alcove] 

John 
[Picking  up  his  cap  from  the  sofa  with 
a  sigh  and  a  shake  of  the  head] 
Who  knows! — there  may — there  may  not.  .  .  . 
Don't  forget  ye 're  at  home,  child.      I  want 
t'  hear — everythin' — when  I  get  back.    I  mus* 
go  out  t'  get  my  walk  now  the  street's  quiet. 
I  ain't  had  none  t'  day. 

Mary 
[Coming  from  alcove] 
But— 

[With  concern] 
be  careful  of  your  foot,  father  dear.     They  want 


154     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

me  in  a  meeting  tonight  but  I  guess  I    can 
get  the  supper  for  us  all,  before  I  go. 

John 
[Brightening] 
An*  get  a  chance  t'  eat  it  too. 

[Placing  his  hands  on  her  shoulders  and 
searching  her  face] 
Ye*re  goin'  t'  stay  fer  good,  I  hope,  little  girl  I 

Mary 
I — I — don't  know,  Dad;  until  the  strike's  over, 
anyhow. 

John 

An'  then? 

Mary 
Then  to — ^wherever  I  may  be  called. 

John 
Maybe  yell  see  Joe,  soon. 

Mary 

[Buttoning  his  coat] 
Now,  Daddy;  you're  all  ready  to  go. 

John 
He  brought  ye  here  t'day.     He— he's  not  happy, 
Mary. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     155 

Mary 

He — married? 

John 

[Adjusting  the  dampers  of  the  stove] 
Yes,  that  Mason  giri.  .  .  .     She  died  inchild-bed 
.  .  .  first  baby. 

Mary 
[Getting  a  scarf  from  a  hook  on  wall 
near  window] 
Here,  you'll  need  this.     It's  a  little  raw  out  when 
the  sun's  gone. 

[She  adjusts  the  scarf  for  him] 
And  don't  go  farther  than  the  corner. 

John 
Thank  ye,  dear  daughter. 

[He  moves  to  door,   hut  turns;  Mary 
kisses  him] 

Mary 
Dear  father ! 

John 

My  little  girl! 

[He  hobbles  out;  she  watches  his  steps 
then  shuts  the  door  after  him] 

[Glimpsing  John  through  window  wav- 


156     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

ing  his  cap  to  her  in  passing,  she  wafts  a 
hiss  to  him.  The  gradual  fading  of  the 
sun  has  left  the  room  in  semi-gloaming. 
She  looks  about  her  for  several  moments, 
listens  toward  the  alcove,  goes  into  it,  re- 
turns  with  an  apron;  removes  her  sweater , 
placing  it  on  a  chair  near  table,  goes  to 
cupboard,  putting  on  apron,  finds  a  bowl, 
some  potatoes,  and  a  knife;  places  these  on 
table,  returns  to  cupboard,  finds  a  pot,  fills 
it  with  water  from  a  pail  using  a  tin  dipper 
for  the  purpose,  sets  pot  on  stove,  adds  a  few 
pieces  of  coal  to  fire,  returns  to  table,  sits 
and  peels  potatoes.  After  a  few  moments 
Joe  is  seen  in  shadowy  outline,  passing 
the  window.  Soon  a  timid  knock  is 
heard] 

Mary 
[Half  turning] 
Come  in ! 

[The    door   opens   slowly;   Joe   enters 

shutting  the  door  and  pausing  near  it; 

looking  but  a  little  less  timid  than  in  the 

first  interview] 

Hello,  Joe.    How  are  you?    I  didn't  get  much 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT      157 

chance  to  ask  you  this  afternoon  with  the 
crowd  at  oiir  heels. 

[Pause] 
Here,   get  this  chair  and  sit  down.    There's  a 
draught  over  near  the  door. 

QoE  timidly  advances^  getting  a  chair. 
He  brings  it  to  table  and  seats  himself 
opposite  Mary.  Mary  looks  at  Joe  as 
if  expecting  him  to  speak;  but  as  he  says 
nothing,  fingering  his  cap  with  eyes  bent 
upon  the  process^  she  resumes  her  potato 
peeling.  After  a  few  moments  she  rises, 
goes  Left,  returns  with  a  dipperful  of  water 
which  she  pours  into  bowl  on  table] 

Mary 
You've  been  doing  good  work  in  this  strike,  Joe. 

Joe 
[Not  looking  up] 
A  Httle.     I — I — ^hope  it's  good  work. 
[Pause] 

Mary 
[Sitting  and  again  taking  up  her  task] 
How  does  the  Union  look  to  you,  Joe? — Much 
stronger  than  it  used  to  be  when — ^when — er 
— eight  years  ago? 


158     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Joe 
[Turning  with  a  sudden  effort  and  facing 
Mary] 
I  was  a  young  fool  then,  Mary,  an*  a  coward ! . 

Mary 
[With  unsteadiness  and  embarrassment] 
Why,  Joe — I — I  never  blamed  you  for  what — 
happened. 

Joe 

No,  ye  were  too  good. 

Mary 
Not  that;  I  think  I  understood,  that's  all. 

Joe 
An'  I  didn't  understand  till  I  had  suffered  a  lot; 
till  she  died — an' — an' — it  died  an'  I  was  left 
alone  .  .  .  thinkin'  o'  you — out  in  th'  world 
— ^with    th'    child — an'    me    th'    father — an' 
what  I  had  done  t'  drive  ye  out. 
[Leaning  toward  her  across  the  table] 
C'n  ye  ever  f ergive  me,  Mary  ? 

Mary 

[Quietly  as  she  bends  over  her  work^ 

There's  nothing  to  forgive,  Joe.       I  don't  regret 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     159 

anything,  and  she's  been  a  great  comfort. 
What's  past  is  past  and  done  with.  Don't 
let  the  thought  worry  you. 

Joe 

{Bending  further  across  the  table] 
But  I  do,  Mary,  I  do! — ^An'  when  she  died,  an* 
th'  years  went  by,  I  got  t'  realize  how  fine 
ye  acted  an'  how  cowardly  I  was — never 
tellin'  yer  father  th'  truth  till  after  Bertha 
was  gone! 

[Rising  and  going  to  her] 
If  I  wasn't  s'  beggarly  poor  I'd  'a'  gone  out  int' 
th'  world  t'  find  ye  both. 

[Touching  her  hand] 
I  love  ye,  Mary! 

Mary 

[Snatching  her  hand  away] 
Don't,  don't,  Joe.     I — I  couldn't  bear  it!    Please 
don't ! — Sit  down,  please! 

Joe 

\With  hands  on  the  hack  of  the  chair. 
He  has  evidently  received  a  vital  blow] 
Ye — ye — don't — care  fer  me  no  more? 


i6o     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 

{Shaken  hut  with  restraint] 
N-no,  Joe.     Not  that  way.     That's — dead  in  me. 

Joe 

[With    unsuspected  fury] 
Then  it's  alive  f er  somebody  else ! 

Mary 
Why,  Joe! 

Joe 
That  damned  McCarthy,  fer  all  I  know! 

Mary 
[Quietly  and  with  gentle  sternness] 
Joe,  you  have  no  right  to  talk  like  that  to  me.  .  .  . 
[Joe  walks  a  few  paces  away  from  the 
table,  and  returns] 
I   hope  you   realize   that.  ...     Sit   down,   Joe. 
I'll  tell  you — everything. 

Joe 
Mary! 

[He  goes  hack  to  his  chair] 

Mary 

I — I  hardly  know  where  to  begin  though  I'm  full 
of  it,  and  my  heart's  bursting  to  tell. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     i6i 

Joe 
[Slowly  taking  his  seat  and  bending, 
ashamed  yet  eager,  toward  her] 
When    ye    left    here! — what    happened?     Begin 
from  the  beginnin'.     Ye  went  t'  Pittsbiirg. 

Mary 
Yes,  into  an  unknown  world — among  strangers — 
with  that  life  growing  under  my  heart.  .  .  . 
How  kind  Mr.  McCarthy  was ! 

Joe 
[Under  his  breath] 
McCarthy! 

[He  moves  uneasily  in  his  seat.     She 
turns  her  head,  bird-like,  to  look  at  him] 

Mary 
You're  jealous,  Joe.  .  .  .  You  have  no  right  to 
be.  Besides,  there's  no  cause.  He  helped 
me  not  because  I  was  a  woman,  but  because 
I  was  a  human  being — in  trouble.  They  were 
willing  to  keep  me — ^he  and  his  wife — till  after 
the  baby  came.  But  I  didn't  stay,  I  didn't 
want  to  burden  them  too  much  .  .  .  five 
whole  weeks  seemed  much  too  long.  Then 
I  found  a  place;  scrubbing  floors  in  a  big 
building,  at  night. 

n 


i62     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Joe 

Oh,  Mary! 

Mary 

[With  a  glance  at  him] 

It  wasn't  bad.  To  creep  away  in  the  early  morn- 
ing to  my  Httle  bedroom  and  sleep  through 
the  day.  ...  It  was  good,  after  being  on 
my  knees  for  nine  hours.  So  tired,  I  couldn't 
think !  But  it  was  best  for  me  not  to.  Seven 
dollars  a  week!  Big  pay  ...  for  me.  I 
actually  managed  to  save  two  out  of  seven. 
One  day  the  man  who  hired  me  asked  me 
where  was  my — husband. 
[Joe  winces] 

I  told  him  the  truth.  He  discharged  me.  I  was 
able  to  pay  my  room  rent  with  the  few  dollars 
I'd  saved,  and  used  a  few  cents  a  day  to  keep 
from  starvation. 

[Joe  groans] 

But  I  was  in  luck.  Another  building  needed  an 
extra  scrubwoman.  I  got  the  job;  but  I 
didn't  keep  it  long.     The — the  baby  came. 

[Joe  buries  his  face  in  his  hands] 
In  a  hospital.  .  .  .  There  were  many  girls 
there  like  me  .  .  .  somewhat  different  stories, 


.   THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     163 

but  the  same  young,  helpless  look  in  the 
eyes — the  same  stunned  looks  on  their  faces. 
I  mus'n't  tell  you  the  things  I  thought  in  that 
hospital — they  were  too  terrible;  but  often 
I'd  forget  myself,  watching  them.  .  .  .  There 
was  a  kind  nurse,  and  a  kind  doctor.  It  was 
like  quitting  heaven  when  I  had  to  leave,  but, 
there  I  was  at  last,  on  the  street  with  my  baby, 
and  nowhere  to  go. 

Joe 


Oh!- 


Mary 

It  was  late  afternoon  when  I  left  the  hospital, 
and  I  hadn't  a  penny  to  my  name.  I  thought 
of  the  McCarthys — 

QoE  lifts  his  head] 
but,  well — I  didn't  go.     I  sat  out  on  a  park 
bench,  that  night 

Joe 

Good  God  I 

Mary 
It  was  October — a  cold  night.     I  was  glad  of  the 
morning.     But  I  was  stunned;  partly  with 
cold — ^partly  life  stunned  me.     I  kept  sitting 


i64     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

there,  warming  my  little  one.  People  came 
— ^homeless  folk — and  sat  beside  me,  but  I 
heeded  no  one.  I  was  thinking  of  ways  to 
find  work.  Well,  a  man  had  left  a  newspaper 
on  the  bench.  "Ads"  I  thought.  There 
may  be  something  there!  There  was;  for 
a  wet  nurse.  It  was  like  sudden  light  in 
darkness!  I  tore  the  ad.  out,  and  hurried. 
A  kind  policeman  gave  me  ten  cents  when  I 
told  him  where  I  wanted  to  go  and  that  I  had 
no  money.  I  got  there,  weak  and  faint,  but 
the  mother  engaged  me.  I  told  her  about 
myself;  but  she  was  kind;  oh,  so  kind!  I 
lived  there,  nursing  her  baby  girl  and  mine — 
for  fifteen  months.  She  was  good  to  me  and 
paid  me  well.  She  lived  in  a  fine  house,  and 
a  man  of  middle  age  came  often  to  see  her. 
I  learned  afterward  that  he  was  a  rich  man 
and  that  she  was  his  mistress.  I  understood 
her  big  human  sympathy  then — perhaps  his 
wife  would  have  shown  me  the  door.  She 
was  kinder  than  any  one  I'd  met  before — or 
since — except  McCarthy. 

[Joe  moves  uneasily] 
I  had  plenty  of  free  time,  so  I  read  a  lot. 
got  books  from  the  library  through  her,  and 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT      165 

I  read  the  kind  McCarthy  started  me  on.  .  .  . 
Joe,  I  learned  to  understand  the  worker's 
problems,  and  to  see  my  own.  I  came  to  see 
that  there  was  no  chance  for  my  baby, — 
legitimate  or  not — unless  there  were  equal 
chances  for  all  babies.  Oh,  that  babe  of 
mine!  .  .  .  Joe,  before  it  came,  I  hungered 
for  you! 


Joe 
[Eagerly] 


Mary! 


Mary 

But  after — all  was  turned  into  a  deep,  hungry  love 
for  her,  that  flowed  out  again  like  an  ocean 
of  love  for  all  the  lonely  children  of  the  world. 
.  .  .  Sometimes  I  worked,  sometimes  I  just 
looked  for  work,  but  always  I  managed  to 
read — and  to  think  and  to  go  to  meetings 
.  .  .  mass  meetings,  where  I  learned  things, 
too.  Oh,  I  learned  things !  .  .  .  I  struggled 
— and  suffered ;  but  I  knew  it  was  not  because 
I  had  my  little  one  ...  in  the  way — I — did ! 
— not  because  the  law  didn't  approve  of  us, 
but  because  the  world  didn't  have  to  give  us 
work!    Because  I  hadn't  the  right  to  earn  a 


i66     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

living.     Because  the  right  to  work  which  is 
the  right  to  Hfe  was  not  mine — legally  mine. 

[She  pauses,  deeply  agitated] 
For  a  time  I  was  a  waitress.     We  had  a 
strike,  and  I  learned  a  lot  there.     Soon  after, 
came  the  big  strike — in  which  I  was  arrested. 

Joe 
The  papers  were  full  of  your  arrest.     How  could 
I  have  known  it  was  you ! 

Mary 
Every  evening  I  went  to  those  meetings.  One 
night  I  got  to  my  feet — and  talked.  I  don't 
know  how  I  did  it,  and  the  baby  in  my  arms ;  I 
was  carried  away.  My  heart  was  bursting  with 
pain.  I  couldn't  sit  silent.  After  that  they 
made  me  talk — often.  I — I  had  so  much  to  say. 
Somehow  it  put  new  courage  into  the  men — the 
police  warned  me  to  keep  away.  I  couldn't ;  I 
had  to  speak.     Then  came  my  arrest. 

Joe 
Was  it  f er  incitin'  t'  riot  ? 

Mary 
That  was  the  reason  they  gave,  but  it  wasn't  that, 
of  course. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     167 

Joe 
I  know  the  way  they  have  of  twistin*  th '  facts. 

Mary 

[Rising  and  taking  off  her  apron] 
A  rumour  had  spread  among  the  strikers  that  I — 
"was — a — a  bad  woman;  that  my  child — had 
no  father.  The  rumotu:  reached  me;  well, 
the  workers  didn't  care  .  .  .  the  workers  are 
a  fine  lot,  Joe ;  taking  them  all  together,  they're 
awfully  human.  They  understand.  But  I 
thought  of  it  all  the  way  to  the  meeting  that 
evening,  and  when  I  got  up  to  speak  I  drew 
a  picture  of  the  way  those  women  live  whom 
rich  men  like  their  bosses  keep,  and  another 
— of  the  workers'  wives.  I  asked  the  work- 
ers if  they  didn't  see  how  the  difference  in 
protection  came  about.  The  workers  are 
forced  to  send  their  little  ones  to  the  mills, 
to  the  mines  and  factories — to  grind  out  pro- 
fits for  the  greedy  few.  How  much  protec- 
tion have  they  in  the  law?  How  safe  and 
secure  are  they? — How  legitimate  are  they? — 
Doesn't  the  law  cast  them  out?  What 
chance  do  they  stand  as  against  even  the  il- 
legitimate  children  of  the  rich? — It  was  for 


i68     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

saying  things  like  this  that  they  arrested  me. 
It  wasn't  the  children's  right  to  he  that  I 
objected  to — law  or  no  law — but  the  right  of 
the  law  to  ignore  millions  of  little  ones  and 
make  slaves  of  them !  When  the  mass  roared 
its  approval  and  someone  in  the  crowd  threat- 
ened to  "get"  the  man  who  tried  to  slander 
me,  they  called  it  "inciting  to  riot"  and  I 
was  placed  under  arrest.  I  went  to  jail  for 
six  months — with  my  baby. 

[She  rises\ 
Oh,  my  little  one!    It  was  kindness  in  them 
to  let  her  come  with  me,  for  I  should  have 
died  there  without  her. 

[She  moves  to  stove  with  the  howl  of 
potatoes  and  puts  them  into  the  pot] 

Joe 
[Much  stirred,   and  rising] 
An'  what  will  become  o'  her,  Mary? 

Mary 
What  becomes  of  most  of  the  children  of  the  poor ! 
Until  their  wrongs  are  righted,  my  child  can 
have  no  greater  measure  of  protection,  no 
happier  life  than  they.  I  can  help  to  right 
their  wrongs,  Joe. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDNT     169 

Joe 
[Pacing  the  room] 
Fatherless!    Ye  should  settle  down  an*  give  the 
child  a  home. 

Mary 
[Going  to  cupboard  and  getting  lamp] 
There's  something  much  worse  than  being  home- 
less in  the  sense  you  mean  .  .  .  besides,  Joe, 
/  couldn't  fit  back  into  the  old  shell — I  couldn't! 

Joe 

[Pausing] 
Ye — ^ye're  not  intendin'  t'  stay  then  at  all? 

Mary 
I  may  make  this  a  sort  of  headquarters  if  things 
go  right.     If  they  don't,  I'll  have  to  wander 
again. 

Joe 
[Stopping  near  table  and  facing  Mary] 
Folks'll  call  the  child  names,  Mary,  an'  make  it 
hard  fer  her — an'  fer  you. 

Mary 

[Placing  lighted  lamp  on  table  Left] 

Folks  are  not  so  narrow  as  they  used  to  be,  Joe. 


170     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Anyhow,  I'm  willing  to  take  my  chances  with 
folks,  for  her  sake — and  mine. 

[She  goes  back  to  cuphoard[ 

Joe 
[Following  her  with  his  eyes] 
Her  sake? 

Mary 
[Finding  a  pan  and  something  that  she 
places  into  it]  * 

Yes. 

Joe 
How  d'ye  mean? 

Mary 
[Stopping  on  the  way  to  the  stove  with 
pan  in  hand] 
Joe,  do  you  realize  what  it  would  be  like  for  her 
if  I  were  to  marry  you  now? — If  I'd  put  her 
in  a  home  where  there  was  no  love? 

Joe 
But  there  would  be  love,  Mary ! 

Mary 
■ — Yes,  I  know,  but  a  half -love,  a  one-sided  love 
is  often  worse  than  none.     You'd  want  me 
to  care,  and  if  I'd  be  true  to  myself,  there'd 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     171 

be  misery  all  the  time,  for  both  of  us.  How- 
could  the  child  be  happy  in  such  a  home? 
And  if  I  stopped  being  true  to  myself  and 
became  a  hypocrite,  she'd  find  it  out,  soon  or 
late.  Do  you  know  what  that  can  do  to  the 
soul  of  a  child?  Maybe  you  don't,  Joe,  but 
/  do.  And  knowing,  I'm  willing  to  take  my 
chances  with  the  world,  sooner  than  give  her 
that  kind  of  a  ''home.'' 

[She  goes  to  stove,  opens  the  oven  and 
puts  in  the  pan] 

Joe 

But  ye  won't  deny  that  to  grow  up  right  every 
child  needs  a  home,  and  the  care  of  parents. 

Mary 
[Shutting  the  oven  door] 
She  needs  more.     Self-respect  and  respect  for  her 
mother.     When  a  girl  has  a  big,  live  faith  in 
her  mother — 

[She  takes  up  howl  and  returns  to  table] 

she's    never    homeless  though   she  hasn't  a 

roof  to  cover  her.      But  when  she  loses  that 

faith — Joe,  I'd  rather  she  and  I  went  begging. 

[She  gathers  the  potato-peelings  into  the 

bowl] 


172     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Joe 

What  notions! 

Mary 
I  can't  help  it,  Joe.     I  believe  in  them.     Things 
being  as  they  are,  it's  better  for  the  child  to 
grow  up — like — this. 

Joe 
She'll  never  thank  ye  for  it. 

Mary 
[Coming  close  to  Joe] 
She'll  understand.  That's  more  important.  She 
loves  and  trusts  me; — as — as  once  I  loved 
and  trusted  you.  No,  no !  I'm  not  accusing, 
only  stating  the  fact.  And  when  she  under- 
stands me  too — I'm  not  afraid  for  her!  .  .  . 
The  woman  of  tomorrow  will  approve  what 
many  people  of  today  frown  upon,  and  my 
little  girl  is  going  to  he  one  of  those  women  of 
tomorrow, 

Joe 
Mary! — She'd  appreciate  ye  all  the  more,  if  she 
knew  ye'd  made  some  big  sacrifice  for  her 
sake. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     173 


Mary 

[Looking 

straight  into 

his 

eyes] 

Would  she,  if  for  her  sake  I 

became  a 

street 

woman? 

Joe 
[Shocked] 

What  an  idea! 

Mary 
Feeling  as  I  do,  this  would  be  no  different.     And 
the  woman  of  tomorrow  will  see  it  in  the  same 
light. 

Joe 
\With  a  hurst  and  in  desperation] 
Little  girl!  ye  cared  s'  much  once,  it  don't  seem 
possible  ye  couldn't  care  again! 

Mary 
[Looking  kindly  and  sorrowfully  at  him] 
If  I  could,  it  would  be  easier  for  her  and  easier  for 
me.    I  wish  I  could,  but 

Joe 
[Attempting  to  embrace  her] 
P'raps,  Mary 


174     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 

[Falling  away  as  in  loathing 
Oh-o-o-oh ! 

[She  shudders  and  attempts  to  throw  off 
an  imaginary  sliminess.  Collecting  herself] 
You — you  see,   Joe,   how  dreadful  it  would  be. 
I  couldn't — couldn't! 
Joe 
\Who  has  taken  the  rehiff  with  astonish- 
ment and  horror] 
Ye  said — ^ye  wished ! 

Mary 
[With  a  rueful  smile] 
That  wish  may  be  a  compliment  to  your  character, 
Joe — for  you're  not  a  bad  sort.     But  wishing 
isn't  loving,  and  doesn't  help  love  to  come 
back,  once  it's  gone. 

Joe 
[Suddenly  bending  desperately  close  to 
her] 
I'll  make  ye  love  me,  Mary,  I'll  make  ye! 

Mary 

[Drawing  away] 

Feeling  as  I  do  now,  you  see,  Joe,  I  couldn't  even 

let  you  try. 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     175 

Joe 

Yer  feelin's  may  change. 

Mary 
I — don't  think  so. 

Joe 

But  if  they  should  ? 

Mary 

/// 

Joe 

[Hopefully] 
Then  ye'll  let  me  try? 

Mary 
[As  The  Child  cries] 
No,  no,  Joe.     It's  an  impossible  ''If!" 

[She  turns  and  hurries  to  the  alcove] 

Joe 

Impossible!  .  .  . 

[Pausing  and  looking  toward  the  alcove 
in  agitation] 
Our  youngster ! 

Mary 
[From  alcove] 
Yes,  sweetheart,  here's  mother ! 


176     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Joe 
[Sitting  on  sofa  and  bending  in  a  listen- 
ing attitude] 
Sweetheart ! 

Joey's  Voice 
Is  grandfather  here  yet  ? 

Mary 
[From  alcove] 
No,  Joey,  not  yet. 


Joey 


Joe 
[He  buries  his  face  in  his  hands] 


Mary 

[Coming  from  the  alcove  softly,  leading 
The  Child  by  the  hand  and  speaking  in 
low  tones] 
Now,  Joey,  dear,  go  kiss  your  daddy. 

[The  Child  goes  shyly  and  hesitatingly 
over  to  Joe  and  gently  touches  his  knee, 
Joe  raises  his  head  and,  with  a  low  cry, 
folds  The  Child  in  his  arms.  Mary 
standing  near  her  old  work-table  by  the 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     177 

window  with  her  hack  to  the  scene,   is 
noticeably  agitated] 

The  Child 
[Shyly] 
You  are  my  daddy! 

Joe 

[Struggling  with  his  emotion] 
An'— an'—you're  ''Mother  Mary's"  little  girl? 

The  Child 
All  poor  little  girls  are! 

Mary 
[To  herself] 
My  darling ! 

[The  Child  shyly  kisses  Joe  on  the 
cheek  and  Joe  responds  passionately  as 
Jennie  opens  the  door  allowing  John  who 
follows  her,  to  pass  in  first] 

John 
[Pleased  at  the  sight  of  father  and  child\ 
Well,  well!  .  .  . 

QoE  has  risen,  The  Child  clinging  to 
him.    John  approaches  them] 


178     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Jennie 
[Throwing  her  shawl  off,  and  going  to  Mary] 
Mary!    I'm  ^o  glad  ye 're  home  again! 

Mary 
I'm  glad  to  be  here,  Jenn !  .  .  . 

John 

lr(7jOE] 

A  fine  youngster,  eh? 

Joe 
Yes,  if  she'd  only  stay! 

John 

Ye  mean  she  said — no? 

QoE  indicates  the  affirmative  by  bending 
his  head  low.  John  looks  astonished, 
Jennie  is  coming  toward  Joe  and  The 
Child,  and  John  goes  directly  to  Mary] 

Jennie 
[To  The  Child] 
What's  your  name,  sweetheart? 

The  Child 
Joey  Lacey 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     179 

Jennie 
Joey! 

[She  looks  at  Joe  with  a  significant 
smile.    Joe  looks  at  the  floor] 
Well,  Joey,  won't  ye  kiss  yer  Aunt  Jennie? 

[The  Child  kisses  her.  She  talks  in 
low  tones  to  Joe  as  the  three  move  to  the 
sofa] 

John 

Is  it  true,  daughter? — Tell  me.     Ye 're  not  goin* 
t'  stay? — ye 're  not  goin'  t'  take  him? 

Mary 

[In  suppressed  tones  pleading  passionately] 
Daddy,    there's   something   here    won't   let   me, 
just  as  there  was  something  here  that  forced 
me  out  into  the  world  alone — with  my  baby 
coming.     I  can't  say  yes,  when  this — 

[Beating  her  heart] 
says  no!    I'd  rather  leave  here  tonight.  .  .  . 
Don't  drive  me  away  again.  Father,  don't. 

John 

[Respectfully] 
He — he  cares  fer  ye  now,  daughter. 


i8o     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
Yes,  but  now  I  don't  care  for  him.  ...  I  wish 
I  could,  but  I  can't.  If  ever  the  miracle  should 
be — but  it's  easier  to  raise  up  men  from  the 
dead  than  bring  back  love  that  has  died.  If 
you're  afraid  of  what  folks  will  say,  I'll  go.  I've 
struggled  and  suffered.  Now  I  can  earn  my 
own  bread.  I'll  ask  you  for  nothing.  Daddy, 
but  I  must  belong  to  myself — be  mistress  of 
my  own  body  and  soul.  I  couldn't  marry 
the  man  who  didn't  love  me  even  though  I 
loved  him  and  his  child  lay  under  my  heart. 
I  can't  marry  the  man  I  don't  love  even 
though  he  loves  me  and  is  the  father  of  my 
child. 

John 
[Placing  Ms  hands  on  her  shoulders] 
Don't  worry,  "Mother  Mary."      Ye  jes'  do  as  ye 
feel  it's  right  t'  do.     I  ain't  goin'  t'  try  t* 
hinder  ye,  this  time. 

Mary 
\A  sob  catching  her] 
Dear  Daddy ! 

[She  kisses  him,  moves  to  cupboard^  and 
busies  herself  with  the  dishes] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     i8i 

John 
[Coming  toward  the  group  near  sofa] 
Well,  Jennie — a  nice  little  one,  eh? 

Jennie 
[As  she  moves  toward  cupboard] 
Yes,  Father 

John 

Eh? 

[Tapping  The  Child  playfully  with  a 
crutch] 

Joe 
[Taking  up  his  cap] 
I — I    guess    I'd   better   go.       It's — near   supper 
time,  an'  they  don't  wait  at  th'    boardin' 
house. 

Jennie 
Ye  better  stay,  Joe,  an'  have  supper  with  us. 

John 
Yes,  Joe;  come  on;  it's  a  long  way  t'  yer  boardin* 
house — an'  it's  gettin'  kind  o'  late. 

Joe 

[Hesitantly  fingering  his  cap] 
I — p'raps  I'd  better  run  along. 


i82     THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T 

Mary 
[Not  significantly,  hut  kindly] 
You'd  better  stay,  Joe.     Joey,  ask  your  daddy  to 
stay  for  supper. 

The  Child 
[Going  to  him] 
Oh,  will  you.  Daddy? 

Joe 
[Throwing  his  cap  on  the  couch] 
Yes,  Joey,  I  sure  will  if  you  want  me ! 

Jennie 
Get  chairs,  folks. 

[They  go  for  them] 
Here's  one  fer  Henry,  an'  one  fer  Father 


John 
Thank  ye,  child. 

[To  Mary  who  stands  musing  at  the 
head  of  the  table  fingering  the  knives  and 
forks] 
It's  all  right,  little  girl.     I  understand. 

The  Child 
[  Trying  to  bring  a  chair  for  herself] 
Oh,  Daddy! 

[Joe  drops  his  and  hurries  to  her] 


THE  WOMAN  WHO  WOULDN'T     183 

Mary 
[Placing  her  hands  on  John's  shoulders 
and  turning  a  grateful  look  upon  him] 
Dear  Daddy ! 

[John  lifts  her  face  in  the  palms  of  his 
two  hands  and  kisses  her] 

CURTAIN 


Seven  Short  Plays 

By 

Lady  Gregory 

Author  of  "New  Comediei,"  "Our  Irish  Theatre,"  etc. 

72°.    $U50 

The  plays  in  this  volume  are  the  following: 
Spreading  the  News,  Hyacinth  Halvey,  The 
Rising  of  the  Moon,  The  Jackdaw,  The  Work^ 
house  Ward,  The  Travelling  Man,  The  Gaol  Gate, 
The  volume  also  contains  music  for  the  songs  in 
the  plays  and  notes  explaining  the  conception  of 
the  plays. 

Among  the  three  great  exponents  of  the 
modem  Celtic  movement  in  Ireland,  Lady 
Gregory  holds  an  unusual  place.  It  is  she  from 
whom  came  the  chief  historical  impulse  which 
resulted  in  the  re-creation  for  the  present 
generation  of  the  elemental  poetry  of  early 
Ireland,  its  wild  disorders,  its  loves  and  hates — 
all  the  passionate  light  and  shadow  of  that  fierce 
and  splendid  race. 


G.  P.  Putnam's  Sons 

New  York  London 


Irish  Plays 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 


Lady  Gregory's  name  has  become  a  house- 
hold word  in  America  and  her  works  should 
occupy  an  exclusive  niche  in  every  library.  Mr. 
George  Bernard  Shaw,  in  a  recently  published 
interview,  said  Lady  Gregory  "is  the  greatest 
living  Irishwoman.  .  .  .  Even  in  the  plays  of 
Lady  Gregory,  penetrated  as  they  are  by  that 
intense  love  of  Ireland  which  is  unintelligible 
to  the  many  drunken  blackguards  with  Irish 
names  who  make  their  nationality  an  excuse 
for  their  vices  and  their  worthlessness,  there 
is  no  flattery  of  the  Irish;  she  writes  about 
the  Irish  as  Moli^re  wrote  about  the  French, 
having  a  talent  curiously  like  Moli^re." 

*'  The  witchery  of  Yeats,  the  vivid  imagination 
of  Synge,  the  amusing  literalism  mixed  with  the 
pronounced  romance  of  their  imitators,  have 
their  place  and  have  been  given  their  praise 
without  stint.  But  none  of  these  can  compete 
with  Lady  Gregory  for  the  quality  of  uni- 
versality. The  best  beauty  in  Lady  Gregory's 
art  is  its  spontaneity.  It  is  never  forced.  .  .  . 
She  has  read  and  dreamed  and  studied,  and 
slept  and  wakened  and  worked,  and  the  great 
ideas  that  have  come  to  her  have  been  nourished 
and  trained  till  they  have  grown  to  be  of  great 
stature." — Chicago  Tribune, 


G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


New  Comedies 

By 
LADY  GREGORY 

The   Bogie   Men— The   Full    Moon— Coats 
Darner's  Gold — McDonough's  Wife 

6°,    With  Portrait  in  Photogravure,   $1,50  net   By  mail,  $165 

The  plays  have  been  acted  with  great  success 
by  the  Abbey  Company,  and  have  been  highly 
extolled  by  appreciative  audiences  and  an  en- 
thusiastic press.  They  are  distinguished  by  a 
humor  of  unchallenged  originality. 

One  of  the  plays  in  the  collection,  *'  Coats,'* 
depends  for  its  plot  upon  the  rivalry  of  two 
editors,  each  of  whom  has  written  an  obituary 
notice  of  the  other.  The  dialogue  is  full  of 
crisp  humor.  *' McDonough's  Wife,'*  another 
drama  that  appears  in  the  volume,  is  based  on  a 
legend,  and  explains  how  a  whole  town  rendered 
honor  against  its  will.  "  The  Bogie  Men  "  has  as 
its  underlying  situation  an  amusing  misunder- 
standing of  two  chimney-sweeps.  The  wit  and 
absurdity  of  the  dialogue  are  in  Lady  Gregory's 
best  vein.  "  Damer's  Gold  "  contains  the  story 
of  a  miser  beset  by  his  gold-himgry  relations. 
Their  hopes  and  plans  are  upset  by  one  they  had 
believed  to  be  of  the  simple  of  the  world,  but 
who  confounds  the  Wisdom  of  the  Wise.  "  The 
Full  Moon  "  presents  a  little  comedy  enacted  on 
an  Irish  railway  station.  It  is  characterized  by 
humor  of  an  original  and  delightful  character 
and  repartee  that  is  distinctly  clever. 

G.  P.  PUTNAM'S  SONS 

NEW  YORK  LONDON 


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